


Seven Years and Twenty-Four Hours

by Glaucus_Atlanticus



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst and Humor, Angst with a Happy Ending, Anxiety, M/M, POV Katsuki Yuuri, Time Travel, canon-typical nudity
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-05
Updated: 2018-08-12
Packaged: 2019-04-21 06:03:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 15
Words: 38,995
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14278452
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Glaucus_Atlanticus/pseuds/Glaucus_Atlanticus
Summary: A time-traveling shower transports 18 year old Yuuri into the body of his future self—and into the arms of his idol, Victor Nikiforov. Now Yuuri must pretend to be his older self until he can return to his own era. Which would be a lot easier if Victor weren't so attentive. Or so affectionate.But as time goes on, Yuuri finds himself torn between his old life, and a new one that would hand him everything he ever wanted...but at the cost of his real identity.





	1. Wrong Bathroom

At 8:00 p.m., alone at last after a grueling competition, Yuuri Katsuki stepped into the shower.

At 8:20 p.m., he stepped out—into a bathroom he had never seen before.

He groaned and pressed his palms to his eyes. Not _again._

His Sapporo hotel suite was clean, but it wasn't much more than a mattress, plumbing and four walls with chipped paint. This bathroom _was_ more. Here, he tip-toed across a hardwood floor, ducked his head under planters hanging from the ceiling, and peeked through silk curtains to reveal an unfamiliar skyline and the Sun low in the west.

He next checked the marble counters and cabinets. Inside, he found luxurious towels, bottles that looked like hair and skin products, and a bottle of rubbing alcohol. A dressing gown hung from a hook on the wall. Next to the sink lay a pair of glasses, a marker, and a ring.

His poodle-print pajamas were nowhere to be seen.

He winced, took the gown off its hook, and prayed that he wasn't stealing clothes from whoever lived here. He felt warmer as soon as he put it on. Yuuri reached for the glasses, which thankfully seemed to match his prescription, and he caught sight of himself in the mirror.

Oh. Oh _no_.

He'd had big jumps before, but never big enough to see himself visibly different. He looked old enough to be out of college now, maybe even in his mid-twenties. His stomach was a bit rounder, softer, but still had the muscles of a figure skater underneath. Had he let himself go? Or had he stopped worrying about his weight so much?

He snorted, despite the strangeness of the situation. Him, not worry? Ha.

“Yuuri!”

As if to prove his point, a voice called from the other side of the door, lilting and impatient. Yuuri startled, and his face went pale. He leaned his hands on the counter and looked down at the sink, willing himself to breathe.

Think. He had to think. He had been weeks ahead before. What had he done then?

“Yuuri,” the voice called again. It chuckled. “Do you need me to help in there?”

“N-no!” he said, head snapping up. “I'm fine!”

“Alright. Whenever you're ready.”

Yuuri doubted he'd be ready for whatever was on the other side of that door. He had nothing with him but a stranger's gown. Nor did anything in the room lend itself to self-defense.

He breathed deeply again. In through the nose, out through the mouth, like his therapist had told him. His hands shook at his sides. But past jumps had taught him what to do: act like he was exhausted and sleep-deprived. Which he actually was, this time. He'd tell people he needed to be alone. Then he'd take another shower as soon as he could without raising suspicion.

He swallowed, steeled himself, and opened the door.

And promptly came face-to-face with Victor Nikiforov.

Yuuri's whole body froze. His blood ran cold but his face burned, and his useless, stupid muscles wound tight like a rabbit being stared down by a wolf.

Victor had been Yuuri's figure skating idol for years. He was a dramatic performer, unfailingly nice, and the only person in the world who could land a quadruple flip jump.

He was also very naked.

Victor was laying back on a large bed, twirling a lily in his fingers. At the sound of the door opening, he brushed his silver hair from his eyes, and gave Yuuri a beaming smile.

“There you are. I was getting cold.”

Yuuri shuddered under Victor's gaze, and he couldn't stop his eyes from trailing down Victor's body. Victor looked older than he remembered, but handsome, and had clearly been keeping in shape in however many years had passed. Yuuri mentally smacked himself. Now was not the time for thinking like that!

Victor sat up, making a quiet rustle on the satin sheets, and folded his legs to the side. He lay the lily in front of him, and raised a finger to his lips. He tilted his head and pouted.

“I feared for a moment that winter had come back,” he said. “And that when you returned, all that would remain of me would be snow.”

Yuuri blinked, eyes wide and uncomprehending. He gulped as Victor lifted a hand toward him, and tugged him forward, until Victor was looking up at him with eyes like...like...Oh, god, when had the shower skipped past his future and landed straight in fantasy land? That was the only explanation for whatever the hell this was.

Victor smiled, not breaking eye contact, his fingers twisting in the folds of the dressing gown.

“Let's make snow angels. In bed.”

Yuuri's face was on fire. He had more than his share of dreams like this, imagining Victor in all sorts of positions that would never happen in reality. Stupid eighteen year old hormones. But to _hear_ it was—not arousing. More like terrifying.

Victor was still watching him, and his brow furrowed as the seconds ticked by and Yuuri stood frozen. Then, Victor smiled again, and traced his finger down the line of Yuuri's hip. The dressing gown felt far too thin.

“It's okay if that's not your thing,” he said. “I'm up for anything tonight.”

His voice was soft, husky, yet it rang like a bell in Yuuri's ears. Yuuri shook his head in disbelief. The real Victor Nikiforov would never—not with _Yuuri—_ what the hell?

“No?” Victor tilted his head, completely misinterpreting Yuuri's response. “Some lighter fare, then? I could feed you strawberries, and kiss the juice off your lips. Or cuddles. You give the best cuddles, you know.”

With every word, Yuuri felt himself starting to shake. His mouth opened and closed a few times, with no sound coming out. His chest tightened. He had to get away, to get _out_ of there. Yuuri pulled back from Victor, bolted back into the bathroom, and locked the door behind him. He slumped to the floor. He pulled his knees up to his chest, and squeezed his eyes shut.

“Yuuri?” Victor's voice was dismayed. “Are you okay?”

Yuuri shook his head, even though Victor couldn't see it. He stifled a sob. Stupid, stupid anxiety. Stupid tears. Stupid him, for hearing his idol talk like that and promptly _running away_.

A soft thump settled on the other side of the door.

“Is it one of those nights?” Victor asked. He sounded like he was sitting down on the other side. “I didn't mean to push you.”

Yuuri's chest heaved, and he lifted his head, willing himself to move.

“I,” he said, voice trembling, “I need to be alone.”

As soon as the words were out he winced. Here Victor had somehow met older-Yuuri, taken him back to his apartment and laid himself bare, and what had Yuuri done? Slammed the door in Victor's face. Yuuri hid his face in his knees. Victor was surely mad at him now.

“Okay,” Victor's voice came through the door. “I'll be in the kitchen and make us some tea. Take as much time as you need.”

Another soft thump, and then Victor's footsteps faded away.

Alone, in the quiet bathroom, Yuuri allowed himself to cry. It wasn't a big cry. Just stress tears, really. Because he'd been through a lot of terrible jumps, especially when he was younger and didn't understand how they worked. But now that something _nice_ might happen, he had to go and ruin it. This was just like Yuuri, though. He'd never felt comfortable with good things happening to him. Anything good was one more thing that could be taken away.

He glared over his knees at the shower head. It looked harmless, like all showers did. He sighed. At least he had a way of getting back.

He stood up, and as quietly as he could, cracked open the door and looked around Victor's bedroom. Victor wasn't there, thank goodness. If Yuuri's clothes weren't in the bathroom, then they should be around here somewhere.

He only needed to give the king-size bed and the floor a quick glance. Except for the books scattered across the desk and end tables, Victor kept a tidy house. A glimmer caught Yuuri's eye. He drifted over to the golden trophies and medals collected over several bookcases. His lip quirked up at the thought of how many competitions Victor must have won to earn them all. Then he leaned over to check out the actual books below, and saw everything from _The History of Ballet_ to _Star Trek_ _,_ along with a surprising number of videogames Yuuri had in his own library. Huh. He hadn't known Victor liked gaming.

With a burning mix of stalker-ish fascination and guilty shame, Yuuri opened Victor's closet. He hesitated to look inside. This was way too creepy and invasive. Wait, was that Yuuri's long-sleeved Pokemon t-shirt on the right?

He tilted his head, and picked through the clothing size labels. Yep. Someone had hung up Yuuri's clothing on the right, near Victor's. Yuuri took out the shirt and his pants with a blush. His heart started beating fast, and he mentally told it to shut up.

Victor was a gentleman. Of course he'd let a visitor store their clothes properly. Yuuri shouldn't read too much into it.

Although, why on earth had he been talking to _Victor_ while wearing a Pokemon shirt? And not even a semi-mainstream character like Pikachu? No, it was the salsa-dancing duck one. Perhaps Yuuri should hop back in the shower then and there, to spare himself the mortification.

As he got dressed, a kettle hissed, boiled and shut off somewhere nearby, followed by a small clatter. Right. Yuuri should at least try to act normal, or as normal as possible considering the situation. He owed Victor an apology.

He slunk into the living room, looking back and forth as if he'd be caught and arrested for dirtying the place with his presence. The problem wasn't that Victor's home was intimidating. In fact, he'd placed lots of touches that reminded Yuuri of his own home: houseplants, framed photos, a deep plush rug that felt like clouds under his feet, and a wide-screen TV with a gaming console. More bookcases. A ratty crocheted afghan, draped over a sleek modern couch. And draped over the afghan—Makkachin.

Yuuri's eyes widened. He had never dreamed of Makkachin. He certainly hadn't dreamed of her launching herself off the couch and knocking him over. He landed on his butt, face full of dog, and she reminded him so much of Vicchan it hurt.

“Makkachin!” Victor called, and she bounded off of Yuuri. She leaned against Victor, who stood by the kitchen counter, cup of tea in one hand and now stylishly dressed. Victor tsk'd, but leaned down anyway to pet her.

“I don't know what we're going to do with you,” he said. “You're a puppy. A big old puppy. You need to greet Yuuri like a respectable doggy, okay? He's not your squeaky toy.”

As Yuuri watched them, he felt a small smile tugging on his lips. He stood up. Victor looked at him, then, and Yuuri felt the heat rise to his cheeks. Victor held out the mug, and the tea smelled perfect after the terrifying bewilderment of the last fifteen minutes.

“No jam in it this time, I promise,” Victor said with a wink. Yuuri raised an eyebrow at that.

He looked around the living room, cup in hand, unsure where Victor would want him to sit. Instead, he followed behind as Victor went back to the kitchen and retrieved a cup for himself. The fact that he got to look at Victor's backside, and watch his shirt ride up as he pulled a jar from the top shelf on the wall, was just a nice bonus.

Then Victor opened the jar and spooned raspberry jam into his tea.

Yuuri's mouth hung agape. That decided it: this was no dream. Yuuri would never have dreamed of his idol bastardizing tea that way.

Victor looked back to Yuuri, and his mouth quirked up.

“One of these days, I'll convert you,” he said.

Yuuri stared at him as if Victor had two heads. “What did the tea ever do to you?”

“People drink sweetened tea all the time,” Victor said, smile widening, “And you like rose and orange herbal teas. This isn't so different.”

Yuuri shuddered, and took a sip from his cup. It tasted normal, thank god. “Those aren't _real_ teas. They don't count.”

Victor laughed, leaning against the counter. “So elitist, Yuuri.”

Yuuri flushed, half indignant, and was about to defend himself when he caught Victor's gaze. It was gentle and easy, and in a moment Yuuri realized the ridiculousness of the situation. Here he was, several years in the future, with Victor Nikiforov. The man of his dreams, in more ways than one. Who apparently had the taste buds of Satan.

Across the kitchen, Victor's eyes never left Yuuri's. His mouth curled into a smirk as he drank his jam-infested tea.

“ _Let's make snow angels_ ,” his voice echoed in Yuuri's mind.

Yuuri shuddered again, this time for a different reason. Only Victor could make that terrible line sound sexy. Yuuri swallowed, and looked away.

“Feeling better?”

Yuuri jolted. “Oh, um, yeah.”

He cringed. Wow, so articulate. Victor would definitely be impressed. Not.

“I mean,” he said, staring into his cup, “Sorry about earlier.”

“It's fine,” Victor said, voice soft. “Do you want to talk about it?”

As if Yuuri _could_. What could he say? “Sorry, the older and cooler Yuuri is unavailable right now. Instead, here's a confused virgin with complimentary panic attacks”? Who would even believe that? It was the weirdest, most pointless power ever, and to anyone else it would look like he was delusional. He had thought he _was_ delusional, at first, until his “delusional memories” started coming true.

“Yuuri?” Victor was looking at him with concern.

“Sorry,” he said again. “I'm not—I'm kind of out of it today.”

Victor glanced at the mug and Yuuri's trembling hands. He frowned.

“No,” he said, shaking his head. “It's fine. Anxiety disorder acting up again?”

Victor _knew_ about that?!

The words shocked Yuuri into dropping his mug. It smashed into several large pieces and a tea-colored splatter on the floor. Yuuri watched it, horrified, and felt like his tentative rapport with Victor had shattered along with it.

He'd done it now. Look at him, destroying Victor's things. After he was nice enough to invite Yuuri in for a fuck, this is how Yuuri repaid him?

“Oh, god,” he said, eyes darting everywhere in the room except at Victor. “Oh my god, I'm so sorry, I'll clean it up and buy you a new one I swear.”

“Yuuri.”

He spotted the roll of paper towels, and ripped several of them off, only to feel Victor's hand on his shoulder. It felt like it burned through the fabric. He jerked away from the touch. _Stupid stupid Yuuri_ , his brain chanted, _Stupid anxious Yuuri. You think you could act normal? Victor knew how weak you were the whole time._

He was on the floor, babbling incoherent apologies and trying to mop up the mess, and saw Victor step away out of the corner of his eye. Of course. Victor was probably sick of Yuuri's crap. He was probably gathering up Yuuri's clothes to throw at him and kick him out any minute now.

Victor whistled. A furry blur skittered into the room. Makkachin ran up to Victor, who pointed at Yuuri. Makkachin followed the gesture and got in Yuuri's face. He tried to reach around her to get at the spill, but she licked at him and blocked his vision whichever way he turned.

“I'll get it,” said Victor, grabbing more towels and soaking up the remainder. “You hug Makkachin and relax, okay?”

Yuuri gulped, wrapped a shaking arm around the poodle, and watched Victor collect the fragments into a pile. Great. Now he was just sitting there, being useless.

“I broke your cup,” he said in a small voice.

“It's just a mug,” Victor said, throwing the towels and pieces away. “I don't care about that. I care about you.”

The words sent a warm and nervous flutter down Yuuri's spine. His eyes widened, and he hugged Makkachin more closely. This was probably just a one night stand—one that Victor was likely regretting now—but damn if Yuuri wasn't a sucker for it.

Victor knelt down again so that his eyes were level with Yuuri's.

“I can tell you're in a rough patch right now. It's okay. I'm not mad at you. We can have a quiet night in, or go to the ice rink, if you like.”

Yuuri gulped. More time with Victor meant more time until Yuuri could shower, and more opportunities for Yuuri to embarrass himself in front of his idol. Yuuri was also exhausted from his competition in Sapporo. On the other hand, if he passed up the chance to skate with Victor Nikiforov, he'd be kicking himself for the rest of his life.

So Yuuri nodded, gathered his courage, and said, “Ice rink.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story contains a large age gap between Yuuri and Victor caused by time travel. I've done my best to write their interactions as healthy and responsible, and for them to be on an equal level. No one is abused or taken advantage of because of ignorance or their age in this story.
> 
> The salsa duck Pokemon is called Ludicolo. Yuuri's skater bio on the Japanese Skating Federation webpage (episode 1) says in Japanese that he likes gaming, so I had a little fun at his expense.


	2. Poster Boy

Yuuri struggled not to crane his neck and gape like a tourist.

He walked with Victor under the eaves of neoclassical apartments and colorful cathedrals. The Sun cast deep shadows through steel knots on the bridge they crossed, and glimmered on the river below. Cyrillic street signs confirmed they were in St. Petersburg.

Despite his nervousness, Yuuri stuck close to Victor's side. His choice was either that, or risk getting sucked into the crowds of tall, quick-walking Russians all around them. He passed street musicians in saris, a Hasidic man in a _kolpik_ hat, and heard more languages in five minutes than in his last five years.

He didn't see a single Japanese person.

If Yuuri moved to America, would he have to get used to that?

What was he doing here? His jumps only took him to places where his future self's body would have been. But why was future-Yuuri in Russia? Most likely, it was for a figure skating competition. That would also explain how he met Victor.

Yuuri glanced at Victor out of the corner of his eye, only to spot Victor watching him with a slight frown on his face. Yuuri averted his gaze. Victor must have been starting to see what a loser Yuuri was by now. How future-Yuuri had managed to trick Victor into taking him home, he couldn't imagine, but perhaps future-Yuuri was more confident, or a better skater. Assuming future-Yuuri was still skating at all.

Yuuri stopped on the sidewalk. Skating! He'd forgotten to bring his skates.

Victor looked back over his shoulder. “What's wrong?”

“It's, um,” Yuuri began. “The skates?”

Victor looked at him curiously. “What about them? Were you thinking of getting new ones?”

Yuuri was about to elaborate, but stopped himself in time. A string of broken friendships had taught him to keep quiet whenever he jumped through time. He should say as little as possible, and go along with whatever future-people thought was normal. Even if it meant going to an ice rink without ice skates. Granted, it was too late to save face in front of Victor, but Yuuri had to try.

“No,” he said. “It's nothing.”

Victor frowned again, but let it go.

They arrived in front of the auditorium complex that housed Victor's home rink. Yuuri sucked in a breath and he stepped back. He had pored over pictures of it Russian magazines for hours, and fallen asleep imagining himself skating here and catching Victor's eye. But now that it loomed before him, those dreams burst into flames.

He was only eighteen. He couldn't even land a quad jump. Why didn't the gods just shoot him now? It would be kinder than making a fool of him like this.

“Yuuri?”

Yuuri jerked out of his reverie. “Right, right.”

He followed Victor around to the back of the building. Victor led them down a flight of hidden stairs, and stopped at an unlit door, nearly invisible. He ignored the knob, knelt down, and slipped his fingers under its crack.

Yuuri raised his eyebrows and stared. “Are you breaking in to your own rink?”

Victor let out a small “Aha!” and there was a peeling sound, before he stood back up and revealed a key stuck to a strip of tape. He grinned.

“I got tired of losing my keys,” he said, turning the key in the lock. “The last one is probably in Vladivostok by now.”

Yuuri opened his mouth, furrowed his brows, and paused. He wasn't even going to try pronouncing that word.

“That, or Beijing,” Victor added.

Yuuri shut his mouth. That explained absolutely nothing.

The door opened into darkness, and Victor closed it behind them. A flick of the light switch revealed a supply closet filled with...basketball equipment? Yuuri was more confused than ever, but he and Victor picked their way past the ball bins and hoops. The door on the other side of the room fed into a hallway, again completely dark.

Victor took Yuuri's hand in his, placed his other hand on the wall, and walked forward.

“Don't worry,” he said, “I've done this many times.” He gave Yuuri's hand a squeeze. “But it's more fun with you here.”

Yuuri reddened. He didn't trust himself to speak. Victor's hand in his made his whole body feel like it was burning up. Add that to being alone, in the darkness, and Yuuri was reminded of _things_ that he'd only envisioned in his dreams. His heart didn't slow down until Victor opened another door and lit up a locker room, dropping Yuuri's hand.

This room was bigger and better furnished than anything Yuuri's home rink in Hasetsu could have afforded. His attention was caught by pictures on one of the walls. When he realized what he was looking at, he gasped and ran over.

Posters of Victor covered the wall. For all that he had believed Victor could do anything, this was more than he'd ever expected. After Victor's stress fracture last season, commentators doubted if he would ever regain his edge. Yuuri could only identify the Russian words for medal, gold and championship. But those words made him swell with pride and vindication.

Other skaters appeared on the walls, too. Yuuri ignored them.

He trailed his hands over Victor's posters, studying each one in turn. The most recent one dated to 2018, and still looked new. Victor must have been about twenty-nine now, and future-Yuuri was twenty-five. Yuuri gulped. That meant he was seven years in the future.

To the left of that image, he saw a series of them dating back year by year, until he found one he recognized from 2011. The posters skipped years after that. Victor hadn't been famous enough in Yuuri's time to always warrant them.

“This one's my favorite.”

To Yuuri's right, Victor was leaning down and smiling at another part of the wall. He already had his skates on. Yuuri shuffled over, looked down, and gasped. What was _his_ face doing there? Who had thought Yuuri deserved half a dozen posters? He shook his head.

Although this version of future-Yuuri had somehow won all those medals, that didn't mean it would actually happen. He had taken gold during future jumps before, then returned to his time period, only for a panic attack or injury to wreck his chances when the competition _actually_ came around. It was incredibly frustrating.

Yuuri squinted at the Russian words for “world champion” by his name. No way. He'd be lucky if he could even survive in the senior division next year, never mind _winning_.

“What,” he whispered.

“I know, I know,” Victor chuckled, studying one poster. “Not my choice of colors either, but Hiroko loved it and I didn't have the heart to change it after that.”

Yuuri gaped. How did _Victor_ know Yuuri's mother? Wait, no, surely this was some other Hiroko.

Victor turned to Yuuri, and planted a quick kiss on his cheek.

“She gets her puppy-dog eyes from you,” he said, and held up a pair of skates. “Come on.”

Yuuri's brain fizzled into an incoherent mash of “!!!” as he watched Victor walk away. Victor sat down on one of the benches and patted the space next to him. Yuuri stood there for a few moments, blinking rapidly, before he swallowed and sat down where Victor had indicated.

Then Victor got off the bench, knelt down, and started removing Yuuri's shoes.

“V-V-Victor?”

Victor looked up into Yuuri's wide eyes, an easy smile on his face.

“Let me do this much for you, at least.”

Yuuri stared. Victor had already stolen his heart. He didn't have to keep trying.

“You,” Yuuri mumbled, “you don't have to.”

Victor's eyes were steady. “I want to.”

Yuuri blinked a few times. This was like staring into the Sun. Never breaking eye contact, Victor lay one of his hands on Yuuri's ankle. With his thumb, he rubbed circles onto Yuuri's skin.

_Damn._

Yuuri gave in, heat radiating up his skin, and nodded.

He watched as Victor Nikiforov slid Yuuri's skates on, one at a time. Yuuri hadn't allowed anyone to tie his skates since he was a child. Like most figure skaters, he was too picky about getting the fit exactly right to let anyone else do it. No matter how careful or precise someone else was, they couldn't read your mind to know what felt right. But this was Victor. Victor, bent low over Yuuri's feet, his silver hair falling down over one eye like a dove's wing, muscles relaxed like he did this all the time.

Victor finished the laces on one boot, tucked in the ends like Yuuri would have done. Not too loose or too snug. No patches of pressure that squeezed too much, or rubbed in ways that could form blisters later. Yuuri twitched his foot in wonder. How had Victor known?

Victor started lacing up the other boot. He looked up with a smug smile, as if he knew he'd gotten it right. He chuckled at the look on Yuuri's face, then ducked his head back down to finish tying the laces.

Well, this _was_ Victor Nikiforov. Who knew, maybe he _could_ read Yuuri's mind.

Victor bent all the way down to the floor, and kissed Yuuri's boots. Yuuri's brain stuttered to a halt.

Then, it exploded.

 _Oh my god_ turned into _he looks good like that_ turned into _what_ and _wow_ and _more please_. Victor raised his head. The press of his hand against Yuuri's knee, muffled by trousers Yuuri wished weren't there, sent electricity across Yuuri's skin.

Victor stood up, brushed the dust from his pants, and the moment was gone. He held out a hand to pull Yuuri up.

Yuuri stared at him for a second, dazed. Jesus. First the crying, then the mug, now this? Could a dream be both sexy and a nightmare? Was that a thing?

“Skating?” Victor prompted.

His voice brought Yuuri back to the present. Yuuri took Victor's hand, though his own was trembling, and let Victor pull him to his feet.

“Skating,” he agreed.

Victor held his hand, again, and Yuuri blushed, again, as Victor led him through another set of doors to the rink.

Yuuri closed his eyes and took a deep breath. He could do this. No audience was watching them, and it wasn't a competition, just him and the ice and Victor.

“Here we are!”

Yuuri opened his eyes at the sound of Victor's voice, took in his surroundings, and his thin calm cracked immediately.

Victor's home rink dwarfed Yuuri's. The ceiling loomed far over their heads, skylights capturing the last rays of the evening Sun. On the floor, cables for sound systems and camera feeds ran along the walls. These led up to speakers and televisions better than what Yuuri had seen at some international competitions. Thousands of seats for the audience surrounded the ice.

Yuuri shrank back. His little rink in Hasetsu could barely afford to keep their Zamboni repaired.

“So, I'm thinking the camera crew will stand up there,” Victor said, pointing to a platform above the seats. “The reporters will be below them. The camera shots will be trickier since it's far from the rink door, but this will make the ice show less stressful for the skaters.”

Yuuri startled, snapped his eyes away from the rink, and blinked at the sight of Victor fiddling with the remote for one of the video feeds.

“Ice show?” Yuuri mumbled.

“It's not as peaceful as Ice Castle Hasetsu,” Victor said, turning the screen off. “Never will be. But the new layout should be more accessible for anxiety and sensory issues. Speaking of which, will this work well enough for you?”

Yuuri stared back at him, arms limp at his sides. Yuuri was at _Victor Nikiforov's_ home rink, and Victor was concerned about whether it was good enough? Good enough for _Yuuri_? No, no, something had to be wrong here. And what was this about Victor seeing Ice Castle Hasetsu? Victor _in_ Hasetsu? Oh god, what would he have thought of it, of the struggling rink and empty strip malls, the fake castle and people moving away?

“Yuuri?”

Yuuri's head pounded, and he wrapped his arms around himself, looking at the floor. Shit. He needed to focus on the here and now. But the here and now was Victor watching Yuuri, and Yuuri was freaking out, and now he was freaking out _because_ he was freaking out.

“Yuuri.”

He was supposed to skate now, to somehow skate in front of Victor, and Victor was going to see all the ways Yuuri messed up. He was going to see eighteen year old Yuuri in twenty-five year old Yuuri's body, and any skill older-Yuuri had acquired would be gone. Poof. He'd see the mistakes and turn away in disgust, wondering what he'd ever seen in Yuuri to begin with.

“Yuuri, _breathe_.”

Victor's hands on his shoulders made Yuuri jerk his head up. At the frown on Victor's face, he looked away again. He hadn't meant to upset Victor. But Yuuri was good at ruining things.

“Breathe,” Victor repeated. “It's alright. I'm here. You're doing well, I'm proud of you and I'm here.”

Yuuri shut his eyes tight. Proud? That meant nothing. Victor hadn't even seen him skate yet.

“Why are you being so nice?” Yuuri's voice creaked.

“Because I love you.”

Yuuri jolted, and would have jumped a good foot in the air if Victor hadn't been holding him. You couldn't just _say_ things like that to people. Not to one night stands. But god, Victor was good at laying on the charm. Yuuri wanted to believe in it. He shook his head, swallowed and stepped back.

“Don't,” he started, before his throat closed up.

He kept his eyes on the ground, not wanting to see Victor's expression. Victor, thankfully, did not move to touch him again.

“Okay,” Victor said after a few moments. “Do you want to leave?”

Yuuri shook his head. He couldn't leave. He had no idea where his older self was staying, and Victor was the only person in St. Petersburg he knew.

“Do you want _me_ to leave?”

He shook his head at that, too. He couldn't tell Victor to buzz off after all the patience Victor had shown him.

He heard Victor sigh. “Do you want to skate? Or we could sit down for a while?”

The tightness in Yuuri's stomach grew sharper. “You can skate if you want to.”

His voice hung in the silent arena, and Yuuri's last few words looped over and over in his head as he wondered if they had somehow been offensive.

“Alright,” Victor said. “It seems like you need some space right now, so I'm going to go out on the ice. You can join me when you're ready. If you need me, wave or call my name, okay?”

Yuuri nodded.

“Yuuri, please look at me.”

Yuuri clasped his arms together and steeled himself. But when he lifted his gaze, Victor was smiling brightly.

“In case you were wondering, I'm not mad and you're not a burden to me,” Victor said, voice light as if he were chatting about a new movie. “I'm just going out to collect my thoughts and give you some time to relax.”

With that, he handed Yuuri his skate guards, passed through the rink door, and skated out to center ice.

Yuuri blinked at his hand for a second, mentally processing that _Victor Nikiforov_ had given him his skate guards, before turning to watch Victor's movements. Yuuri's heart beat quick again, half from nerves and half from excitement. Victor was distracted now. He wouldn't notice if Yuuri stared. And he'd said that he wasn't mad.

But what if he was? What if Yuuri was bugging him, and Victor was too nice to say so?

“Shut up,” Yuuri told his brain.

He placed the skate guards on the rink boards, next to the gate, and leaned his elbows on the boards. Dream or no dream, even with Victor right there, Yuuri still felt like a spectator. And it was entirely his own fault. If his stupid anxiety hadn't made him freak out whenever Victor did something nice for him, he'd already be out there skating with him.

“ _Anxiety again?”_

Anxiety that Victor knew about. _Had_ known about, since before Yuuri had fled into the bathroom and slammed the door in his face. How had Victor known?

Yuuri frowned, mentally retracing his steps. If he didn't want Victor to think Yuuri was outright nuts (as opposed to merely self-sabotaging and neurotic), he needed to figure out as much of the situation as possible. What did Victor expect from Yuuri's older self?

Victor spoke as if he knew Ice Castle Hasetsu well. He wasn't alarmed by Yuuri's panic attack. He must have shared at least one ice show with Yuuri, since Yuuri had seen posters of them together. An ice show for which Victor was the main backer, since he had creative control over the poster, and during which he already knew Yuuri's mother and even took her advice. Which meant he knew Yuuri's family from before the ice show. Knowing _Yuuri_ was reasonable, because older-Yuuri had somehow proven himself internationally. But why would Victor know his family or hometown? Hasetsu wasn't anywhere near the major competition venues in Japan.

However it happened, the clues did not add up to a one night stand. He and Victor must have been friends. Boyfriends? No. Apart from Yuuri's own mental weakness making him way too annoying and high-maintenance, Victor would never settle down with one man.

Yuuri chewed on his lip, still leaning on the rink boards, and looked up as Victor finished a Choctaw turn. Victor glanced over, waved at Yuuri, and skated off again. Yuuri reddened and ducked his head. On his chest, he saw the salsa-duck Pokemon t-shirt again.

Victor knew Yuuri had an anxiety disorder. Victor knew Yuuri wore stupid videogame t-shirts. Victor knew Yuuri's mom. And despite all that, Victor was still Yuuri's friend.

Yuuri set down his glasses and skate guards, and stepped on to the ice. It was time for him to start acting like Victor's friend, too.


	3. Three Nice Things

Yuuri started slowly, carefully, at the opposite end of the rink from Victor. He caught Victor sending him a smile. But figure skating was a solitary sport, save for the pair skates and ice dances neither of them knew, so even now Yuuri kept his distance.

While Victor favored step sequences and spins from routines beyond Yuuri's time, Yuuri rehearsed the old compulsory figures, obsolete though they were. He had come off a whole day of competing, and didn't have the energy for anything more. His first shape was the simple figure-eight. His legs felt like they were made of jelly. He could fall over any instant. Wobbling, he moved on to the paragraph double-three, and then the rocker. Each figure, he traced more slowly than usual, and tried to tune out the sound of Victor's skates. Of Victor's presence, really.

By the time he got to the paragraph loop figure, Yuuri's muscles had loosened. The tremor in his calves gave way to certainty, and the edges of the shapes he traced became more precise. Back straight, shoulders back. He heard the voice of his old ballet teacher in his head, reminding him to keep his rhythm and turn out his hips. She was now seven years and thousands of miles away. But he'd do his best to make her proud.

On the paragraph bracket figure, Yuuri heard an echo of his skates. He wrinkled his brow. When he paused, so did the echo. When he continued the figure, the echo followed, offset by a second or so. It didn't match his movements exactly, but it was too similar to be mere noise, so what could it be?

His eyes widened, and he looked behind him. Of course. Victor.

“Are you copying me?”

“Yep,” Victor beamed, hands on his hips.

“Why?”

“You're better at those than I am.”

Yuuri squinted back at him and tilted his head. “I don't believe that.”

Victor beckoned him over. “Come and see.”

Without his glasses, Yuuri had to skate close to where Victor stood, and lean over so he could see the lines in the ice. His eyes followed the smooth curves Victor had traced. Well, mostly smooth. A frayed blur marred one of the turns.

Yuuri glanced over at Victor. Victor smiled and gave him a half-shrug, as if to say _Go ahead_. Careful not to smudge the etchings, Yuuri knelt down next to the blur.

Compulsory figures were challenges of precision. Unlike skating routines, full of steps and spins and ever-higher jumps, figures were drawn with edge work and turns alone. The completed figures were visually simple, but difficult to execute. After all, to draw a perfect circle with your hands was difficult enough. Drawing it with your feet required the dexterity of a god.

So how had _Victor Nikiforov_ screwed up a simple bracket turn?

Yuuri frowned down at the ice. The motion itself had the right idea, but it wasn't centered correctly, and one side of the point was more smooth than the other. Then, when tracing the figure over, Victor had traced it _too_ closely, repeating his mistake. Victor had noticed that halfway through, too. Yuuri could see the exact moment when Victor spotted his error, and hastily corrected his footing, resulting in the wonky blur.

“Victor?” Yuuri began, still keeping his head down.

“Hmm?”

“Did you do this on purpose?”

“Nope,” Victor said, skates twitching at the edge of Yuuri's vision. “How could I? I was following you. I didn't know what kind of turn it would be until you did it.”

Yuuri hummed. That would explain it. “So you messed up because you were watching me, not your feet.”

“Yuu-ri _,_ ” Victor drawled. “Does _this_ look like I wasn't watching my feet?”

He tapped his toe-pick against the outer curve of the figure, where he had indeed traced the lines closely, too closely to be possible if he hadn't been studying them. He must have been watching when he repeated his mistake, too, since he corrected it midway through.

“I did _this_ ,” Victor said, pointing at the blur. “And you didn't.”

Yuuri stood up, and brushed ice shavings off his pants.

“That's not fair, though. You didn't know what the figure was going to be, and you had to watch both of us, while I was only watching myself. If it had been fair you would have done better than me.”

As he spoke, Victor's smile slowly turned downward, and his feet became still. He brought a finger up to his chin and studied Yuuri for a few moments. Yuuri tensed up under the scrutiny.

“Goodness,” Victor said. “You're really down on yourself tonight. Do I have to show you the 2018 Olympics footage again?”

Yuuri paled. “ _No!_ ”

His shout echoed across the ice rink, and Victor's eyes went wide and he stepped back. Yuuri cringed and ducked his head.

Nothing good had _ever_ come of bringing future knowledge back to the past. Sometimes it was because he knew something terrible would happen, like a friend's dog dying, and he was powerless to stop it. Other times, it seemed to be something good, but later the timeline would change and he'd lose money, medals or friendships. He was lucky he hadn't created a paradox that erased himself from the timeline altogether. Yet.

“Sorry,” he said. “Can we drop it?”

Victor crossed his arms and regarded him for a moment.

“Alright, but only if you say three nice things about yourself.”

Yuuri gaped at him. “What?”

“Coach's orders.” A hint of a smirk entered Victor's face.

Yuuri looked away, fixing his eyes on the lines they'd scrawled across the ice. He scratched the back of his neck. That was an awfully weird thing for Victor to say, and it went against Yuuri's instincts to talk himself up. But if Yuuri's coach had insisted, he'd do it.

(Who _was_ Yuuri's coach, seven years in the future?)

“I'm waiting,” Victor said, voice light and cheery. “Three things. Big or small.”

Yuuri bit his lip. As soon as Victor had said it, it felt like every possible response had flown from Yuuri's head. His eyes darted around the rink. Big or small, huh?

Well, he _had_ gotten in to some of the best universities in Japan. They probably only accepted him because they needed to fill out their freshman class, but it still meant something, right?

“I get good grades?”

Victor chuckled. “You make it sound like you're still in school. Try something in the present.”

Yuuri tensed at that. He blinked and tried not to cringe. Stupid! Why not tell Victor he was a time traveler, while he was at it? He needed something that wouldn't him give away. What was something timeless?

He swallowed, then started again. “I love my parents. I try to make sure they can be proud of me.”

“They are.”

He looked up, and Victor was smiling at him softly. Yuuri blushed and looked away again.

“Um. I'm not overweight?”

Victor shrugged. “You're beautiful at any weight. That said, you _have_ worked hard to stay in competition form, and that's worth being proud of.”

Yuuri hid his face in his hands. Why did Victor have to keep saying things like that?

“One more thing, Yuuri.”

Yuuri's mind was blank. He knew hardly anything about his future self's life. Honestly, Yuuri could barely keep a grip on his life even in his own time period. How was he supposed to boast about himself when he had spent this entire evening being a burden to the man he looked up to? Had he done _anything_ right tonight?

He glanced around again, taking in the elaborate rink that Ice Castle Hasetsu could never compete with. The rink that grew steadily dimmer as the Sun's rays waned from the skylights. The rink that they had _snuck in to_ because Victor's key was in Vladisomething.

“I can keep track of my own keys.”

He clapped a hand over his mouth as soon as the words were out, and jerked his head up to apologize for the implication when Victor slumped to the floor.

“You wound me,” he groaned. “Betrayed! I've been betrayed by my own accomplice.”

Yuuri sputtered and waved his hands. “Ack! I'm sorry! I didn't mean that you were, um. I'm sure you're very responsible!”

Victor was still face down on the ice, but he rested his head on his elbow and started making sounds like...wait a second.

Yuuri knelt down next to him. “Are you giggling?”

Victor peeked up at him, and though his face was still half hidden behind his arm, he was unmistakably grinning.

“Responsible,” he said. “No one's ever accused me of that before.”

Yuuri rubbed the back of his neck. “I didn't mean to be rude.”

“I didn't think I'd get murdered so beautifully.”

“ _Please_ forget I said it.”

“Okay, okay.” Victor stood up. “It's getting late. Want to go home?”

Yuuri inhaled sharply as he straightened up. Home could mean a lot of things right now. Victor's home, Yuuri's tiny room in Sapporo, or Yuuri's _real_ home in Hasetsu. And then there was wherever future-Yuuri was staying while in St. Petersburg. That last one was the most likely thing Victor was thinking of: “Go back to your own hotel room so I don't have to deal with you anymore.”

Not that Yuuri could. Where would he even look for a room in this massive city?

“Um.” He looked down at his hands. “Could I...”

A vision flashed in his mind of him and Victor, limbs tangled together in darkness. His hands tingled with the sensation of skin on skin and velvet blankets, instead of the cold, cramped room waiting for him in Sapporo.

Victor smiled back at him. “Yes?”

Yuuri couldn't stay in this time. Future-Yuuri belonged here instead. Present-Yuuri was meant to be in Hasetsu, at least for now. His future after this skating season was as solid as mist.

His stomach twisted at the prospect of the future, and he shoved the thought away.

“I,” Yuuri finally said, “I'd like to see Makkachin again.”

Victor's gaze softened. “Of course.”

They exited the rink and put on their skate guards, and Yuuri retrieved his glasses. He sat down beside Victor on one of the benches.

Victor glanced over as he changed back into his shoes.

“Would you like me to—”

“I got it,” Yuuri said, unlacing his own skates.

“Ah.” Victor's smile faded. “Okay then.”

They put their skates away, retraced their steps, and Yuuri couldn't hide a snort as Victor taped his illicit key back under the door.

Curly-topped lamp posts flickered on overhead as they made their way back to Victor's home. The sidewalks had emptied. A sea breeze rolled in from the Baltic, sweeter than Hasetsu's salty gusts, chilling the air. Yuuri's strands blew into his eyes and caught on the hinge of his glasses.

The fifth time Yuuri spat hair out of his mouth, Victor reached over, and tucked one of Yuuri's fly-aways behind his ear. Yuuri shivered. Even his own family rarely touched each other like that. But Victor was European, and Europeans thought nothing of it, right? Yuuri shouldn't overthink this.

Victor's hair fluttered around him, glinting gold under the street lights. Yuuri silently thanked the darkness for hiding his blush.

“You're quiet today.”

Yuuri blinked, and cursed himself for spacing out. “Sorry.”

“No apology necessary,” Victor said. “But I'm here if you need me.”

Yuuri looked at the ground, and his throat felt tight. He only nodded in reply. Had he spoken, his voice would have cracked in two.


	4. Puddle-Petting Duty

Makkachin barked at them as soon as Victor swung the door open. Her tail thumped merrily on the floor. She wove between their legs, and pressed herself against Victor, who leaned down and cooed at her.

“Look at this poor dog. So neglected,” he said, rubbing her back. “It's awful.”

Yuuri raised an eyebrow, and was about to disagree, when he spotted the twinkle in Victor's eye. Makkachin rolled over in front of them, tongue lolling and four paws in the air.

Yuuri's lips twitched. “I think your dog melted.”

“She does that. Get a poodle, they said,” Victor sighed, putting on a long-suffering face even as he knelt down and rubbed Makkachin's belly. “Poodles don't shed, they said. Now I know why. Instead, they turn into puddles.”

“Do you need a spatula to scrape her off the floor?”

Victor glanced up at him. “Can you un-melt her? I need a while to get ready for bed.”

Yuuri snorted and sat down next to them. “I think I can do that.”

While Victor went off to the kitchen to do—who knew, maybe get a snack—Yuuri took over puddle-petting duty. Makkachin's feet batted the air, and he grinned. She was less a puddle and more like a giant furry jello blob. A jello blob with more gray hair than he remembered.

“How old are you now?” Yuuri said under his breath, eyes soft. “Victor was fifteen when he got you, if I recall. If he's twenty-nine now, you're at least fourteen.”

Makkachin wiggled her neck and looked at him upside-down.

“Heh, sorry. I promise you don't look a day over ten. Vicchan's not far behind.”

He leaned back on his hands, mind drifting to the image of his poodle curled up on his bed. His eyes wandered around the living room. He tilted his head and squinted to read the worn paperbacks on the nearest bookcase: _Lest Darkness Fall, 1632,_ _Slaughterhouse-Five_. Nearby sat many titles in Russian by Sergey Lukyanenko, and a few by Robert Heinlein. Interesting. Victor's taste in books had a lot in common with Yuuri's.

He glanced at Victor from the corner of his eye. Victor was rearranging things in the kitchen cabinets. Yuuri crept forward, and pulled _Lest Darkness Fall_ off the shelf. If so many people had written about time travel, surely some of them would have gotten it right.

His face fell as he skimmed the back cover. Yet another time travel story that focused on visiting the past. Why were most stories about going back decades or centuries in time? Yuuri had only appeared in his own future, and never more than a few weeks ahead. Until now, anyway.

He frowned, clutching the book to his chest. Why the seven-year gap this time? If it followed the same pattern as previous jumps, then Yuuri must not have time traveled at all in those seven years between his era and this one. Maybe he had figured out a way to stop the jumps?

Yuuri sighed. No, that couldn't be right. The one rule of time travel he was absolutely sure of, was that time hated Yuuri Katsuki.

Over the years, he had devoured as many time travel stories as he could. Or rather, he devoured their first chapters. After that, he hurled them at the wall.

His problem was that every time travel story had a _means_. An alien spaceship. A special watch. A time machine or magic effect of some kind, which the time traveler could use to control when they arrived, or to avoid time traveling altogether. Yuuri had a shower that randomly kidnapped him. A shower that looked completely normal to every other person on the planet.

Actually, make that _two_ showers.

His knuckles tightened around the book. What if more showers started doing this to him? What if this jump was the first of many longer jumps?

What if his problem got worse?

He shuddered, and replaced the book on its shelf. His eyes drifted down, then he gasped. On the bottom shelf sat the entire _Harry Potter_ series, including _The Cursed Child,_ a book that hadn't existed in his time. Yuuri snatched it up and turned to the first page.

He soon realized his mistake.

Victor, apparently, was not only the sort of person who would dog-ear pages, but would scribble in the margins in hot pink gel pen as well. He might as well have dressed Voldemort in a rainbow-colored tutu. With a shudder, Yuuri shut the defiled book.

He blinked when Victor walked past, carrying a bottle of vinegar, a jar of coconut oil, and an avocado. He paid no attention to the dog-eared crime in Yuuri's hands. Victor disappeared into his bedroom.

Yuuri and Makkachin looked at each other.

“Do I want to know?”

Makkachin woofed.

“Yeah, I didn't think so either.”

Apparently unsatisfied by Yuuri's lack of petting, Makkachin rolled forward and plunked herself down in Yuuri's lap. Yuuri scratched her ears. He frowned at the door Victor had left ajar.

“It must be nice,” he said. “Being able to do everything you want in your own hometown. Victor gets to see you every day.”

He rested his chin on Makkachin's head, and sighed. The sound of the shower turned on.

He closed his eyes and buried his face in Makkachin's fur. Feeling jealous was stupid. And it was stupid, to look at the universities dotting St. Petersburg's skyline, and the world-class skating program, and to _want_. Yuuri should have been grateful he got to meet Victor at all. He should have been soaking up every second he had here. He should have been thrilled to his bones.

But what Yuuri was, was drained. He was eighteen years old, on the cusp of entering college and aging out of junior level competitions. Anyone else would have been ecstatic. After all, how many students got accepted to every university they applied to? How many skaters got coaching offers from Celestino Cialdini?

It was the opportunity of a lifetime. It was also a thirteen hour flight from Japan to Coach Cialdini's rink in Detroit. The travel expenses alone would cost more than his family's monthly food budget. In between battling the competition, winning gold, calling his family, fending off sponsors, getting another call from Cialdini, and fleeing to his hotel room, Yuuri had felt as stable as a ping-pong ball.

 _Then_ his own shower had dumped him here.

Adrenaline—and, he admitted, attraction—had kept him awake, but sleep sounded more and more appealing now. Sleep, and not thinking about the future.

Yuuri slouched and lay back on the nice, plush carpet. Maybe he could stay here and use Makkachin as a pillow.

It seemed like he had just closed his eyes when he felt fingers carding through his hair.

“Yuuri, you were supposed to un-melt our dog, not join her.”

Yuuri grunted. He wasn't sorry. It was Victor's fault for making the floor comfortable.

“True, but I can't let you have a sore back for practice tomorrow.”

Oh. Had Yuuri said that out loud? “Mmph.”

“Come on, love.”

“Can't move,” Yuuri mumbled. “There's a dog on me. It's the law.”

“Hmm. Good point.” A chuckle. “Makkachin, bed time.”

The poodle languidly stood up, depriving Yuuri of his improvised furry blanket, and he cracked open an eye. For some reason, Victor was wearing one of the onsen robes from Yuuri's home. Yuuri tried not to think too hard about that.

Victor held out a hand. Yuuri let Victor pull him up, and Victor put his arm around Yuuri's shoulder.

Yuuri blinked himself more awake when he realized he was being pulled towards Victor's room. The image flashed in his mind of Victor, naked and winking. Wait. Did Victor actually mean to do _that_?

“Victor?”

Victor closed the door behind them. “Yes?”

“I just wanna sleep.”

Makkachin jumped up and claimed the center of the bed. Victor squeezed Yuuri's shoulder.

“I figured as much,” he said. “You've had a long day.”

Victor had no idea how true that statement was.

Yuuri took off his glasses, and set them on the nightstand. He glanced back at Victor, to make sure this was okay, and collapsed on top of the sheets next to Makkachin.

Victor laughed. “Do you need help getting out of your clothes?”

The words took a second to register. Then Yuuri's face was on fire.

“N-no!” he said, sitting up and waving his arms. “I got it! It's fine!”

Did he have a pair of pajamas around here? Doubtful. Yuuri fidgeted with the hem of his shirt, glancing at Victor from the corner of his eye. Victor was _watching_ him.

“Don't mind me,” Victor said, smiling innocently.

“Um.” Yuuri gulped, and looked at the floor. “Could you look away?”

His chest constricted, prepared for probing questions or even a complaint. After all, Victor hadn't invited Yuuri in for a mere sleepover.

But Victor merely shrugged, and said, “Sure.”

Yuuri's muscles relaxed, and he looked up, in time to see Victor turn around and shrug out of the robe, perfectly naked underneath. Yuuri jerked his gaze away, and fabric rustled behind him as Victor took the other side of the bed. Yuuri snuck a glimpse over his shoulder, and saw Victor was still turned away.

Yuuri shut his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. He was being stupid. He'd seen a million people naked in the onsen, and a million people had seen him naked, too. Why should Victor be any different?

Apart from the fact that Yuuri had fantasized about this exact scenario a hundred times, that is. Too bad fantasy-Yuuri was also a hundred times more suave.

Yuuri stripped down to his boxers, folding his clothes neatly next to his glasses. He shuffled under the covers, mindful of Makkachin curled up in the middle, and silently grateful that she had placed herself in between them. He pulled the covers over his head. If he reached out and petted her, he could almost pretend she was Vicchan.

Was Vicchan still alive in this time? Did future-Yuuri get to see him often, or any other members of his family? Presumably, since he had won a World Championship, he'd pursued his skating career instead of university. Perhaps he had agreed to Celestino's offer, and moved to Detroit. Maybe he was even happy.

Yuuri pulled back his hand and curled in on himself. He had spent his whole life in Hasetsu. The thought of living an ocean away from everyone he knew made the hairs stand up on the back of his neck. He'd probably have a panic attack before he even got off the plane.

How had future-Yuuri managed it? And in the senior division, no less! Yuuri struggled to push himself onto the ice even in junior competitions. Soon, he would age out of them. The senior level swatted most juniors like flies on a windshield. If the pressure didn't kill him, the raw power of his opponents surely would.

And then there was Victor.

Yuuri peeked out from under the covers. Beside him, Victor's chest slowly rose and fell, and his fringe had morphed into some truly terrible bedhead. Funny, Yuuri had expected him to still look like a magazine cover. He had to stop himself from reaching out to pet it.

Through all the years Yuuri had collected tapes and posters and interviews, a proverb whispered at the back of his mind: Never meet your heroes. He had assumed it was a warning that meeting Victor would disappoint Yuuri.

No. The problem was that Victor _hadn't_ disappointed him. The problem was that Yuuri liked Victor even more now, knowing that in a short time, he'd have to leave. He'd step into that shower, step back out into 2011, and return to a world where Victor neither knew nor cared who Yuuri was. A world where Yuuri still had to choose between university or his skating career.

The night had drifted into early morning when Yuuri fell asleep.


	5. The Shower

If Yuuri had been ticklish, he would have laughed hard enough to fall out of bed. But since he was not ticklish, he instead assumed that the faint wisp brushing at his arm was a spider. Yuuri liked spiders, but not when they were _on_ him.

_Swat!_

“Owww!”

That was an awfully strange sound for a spider to make.

Yuuri opened his eyes to the sight of Victor sitting next to him, cringing and flapping his hand like a cat that had stepped on a hot coal. He was also naked. Again.

For a moment, Yuuri stared, because hey, naked Victor Nikiforov. Then Yuuri's brain turned on and he scrambled to sit up in bed.

“Oh my god, I'm sorry!” He bowed his head in shame. “I thought you were a spider.”

Victor gave him a pained smile and capped his marker.

“No worries,” he said. “I'll be fine in a minute.”

Yuuri let out a breath. Phew. Victor wasn't mad at him.

“Okay,” he said, “I'm glad.”

Wait. Why was Victor holding a marker? Yuuri squinted at him, and Victor grinned back, looking a little too innocent. He glanced down at the bed. Yuuri followed his eyes, down to Yuuri's arms.

“Have you been _doodling_ on me?”

Victor threw up his hands, beaming ear to ear. “Guilty as charged!”

Yuuri gaped at him. Gaped at the marker in Victor's hand. The permanent _,_ non-washable marker.

“Give me that.”

Victor wiggled it between his fingers. “Make me.”

Yuuri lunged.

Makkachin leapt off the bed with a bark as they fell into a tangled pile of limbs, blankets, laughter (Victor's) and mortification (Yuuri's). Victor was taller, which gave him an advantage at keeping the marker out of Yuuri's reach, but Yuuri managed to wrestle him onto his back. When Yuuri found Victor's ticklish spots, below his ribs, it was all over.

“Okay, okay!” Victor wheezed. “I give! Yield! Uncle!”

Yuuri uncapped the marker and aimed it at Victor's head. “I should draw all over your face _right now_.”

“Not the face!”

“Flags,” Yuuri said, smile creeping up his lips. “One for each country you medalled in. Lots of tiny flags, and right here,” he tapped his finger to the tip of Victor's nose, “Japan.”

Victor grinned beneath him. “Change the marker for face paint, and I'd be into that.”

“Have you seen Japan's flag? Everyone will think you've got a big red pimple, right there.”

Victor covered his nose with his hand. “You're an evil, evil man. I like it.”

Yuuri snorted. He trailed his eyes down Victor's face, flushed from laughing, and froze.

He was on top of Victor, Victor's hips between his knees, and Victor was still naked.

Yuuri could have scored +3 technique bonus as he jumped off Victor as fast as possible. He sat himself on the edge of the bed, breathing hard and hiding his face in his hands. Had he really done all that? What? How? His self control was usually better than this!

“Ah, well,” Victor murmured, shifting to sit beside him. “No sense putting Sharpie ink on the face, anyway. That _has_ to be drying.”

Then why did Victor put it all over Yuuri? Yuuri wanted to ask, but right now his mouth wasn't working. He dropped his hands from his face, and took a good look at Victor's scribbles for the first time.

_Brave. Hard-working. Honest. Resourceful. Forgiving. Genuine. Loving._

Yuuri stared at the words going up and down his arms, each one more surprising than the last.

 _Gentle but strong,_ said one. _Never gives up_ , said another. The longest was nearly a full sentence: _Inspires everyone around him to become better people_.

And, on the inside of Yuuri's left wrist, _Victor ♥ Yuuri, 11-5-18._

His stomach dropped with the realization that this was _not_ a one night stand, and not friends with benefits, either.

“Victor,” he managed, before his throat closed up again.

Victor leaned towards him, and traced a finger down the inside of Yuuri's forearm.

“You were very hard on yourself yesterday. It worried me.”

Yuuri looked at his feet. “Sorry.”

“I want you to know that, when I look at you, this is what I see.”

Yuuri shut his eyes, unwanted tears welling up, and shook his head. Victor's hand felt like it tingled on his skin.

“It's true,” Victor said. “Do you want me to give examples to prove it?”

Yuuri shook his head again. “No, that's alright.”

He didn't want to hear all the reasons why Victor liked an older, better Yuuri. Every compliment Victor gave him was stolen from the man whom Victor really wanted. It made Yuuri feel like he would throw up.

“I,” he gulped, “I need to, um, bathroom.”

Victor shifted away, thank god. Yuuri walked to the bathroom door.

“Alright,” Victor said. “After that, let's get breakfast and go to the rink. I'd like to find that cute café you mentioned the other day. Sound good?”

“Yeah,” Yuuri lied.

The word _Honest_ stung like a brand on his skin. See, he was proving Victor's compliments wrong already. Because _this_ Yuuri wouldn't be eating breakfast with Victor or accompanying him to the rink.

This Yuuri was going to take a shower.

As soon as the door was shut behind him, he dry-heaved into the sink. His whole body shuddered. He leaned his elbows on the counter, and stared into another Yuuri's reflection. Another Yuuri, who was older and better and had Victor Nikiforov for a boyfriend.

Yuuri screwed his eyes shut and slammed his fist down on the counter. He draped a towel over the top of the mirror, so he wouldn't have to look at _him_ any more.

He grabbed a smaller towel and wet it, and rubbed his arms raw before giving up. Then a glint caught his eye. The ring from last night still lay there, next to a bottle of rubbing alcohol. Aha. With the cloth now dipped in alcohol, he rubbed off _brave, hard-working_ and _honest._ His eyes started to water. He forced himself to breathe as he removed _resourceful, forgiving_ and _genuine_.

He wiped away _loving_ , and a tear slipped out.

He had to get a grip on himself. Victor wasn't even talking about _him_ , not really.

He removed _gentle but strong_ , which was probably Victor's nice way of saying _weak_. _Never gives up_ had to go, too. Victor had no idea how often Yuuri wanted to run away and hide. And there was no way Yuuri could _inspire everyone_. He couldn't even inspire himself.

At last, only one mark remained on his arms. The cloth hovered a few inches over his skin, shivering with the tremble of his muscles.

_Victor ♥ Yuuri, 11-5-18_

He stared at it, and his vision went blurry again.

He lay the cloth down.

Yuuri turned on the shower, and it warmed up instantly. He stripped off his clothes and dumped them in the laundry, and took one final look around the room.

With what he now knew, he could see traces of Victor everywhere. The expensive hair and skin products. A doggy brush for Makkachin next to Victor's. A framed photograph on the wall of Hasetsu Beach. Yuuri stared at it, face blank, and took off his glasses. The picture didn't change.

 _I hope you're happy with him_ , Yuuri thought viciously to his future self.

Somewhere, on the other side of the door, he heard the tell-tale skitter of dog feet and a jingling leash.

“Out for a walk!” Victor called.

“Bye!” Yuuri called back, the word weighing in his gut.

Goodbye, indeed.

He stepped into the shower, pulled the curtain behind him, and let the water fall.

* * *

At 7:28 a.m., Yuuri Katsuki stepped into Victor Nikiforov's shower.

At 7:37 a.m., Yuuri Katsuki stepped out, into Victor Nikiforov's bathroom.

He blinked. He rubbed his eyes and looked again. He even peeked out the window. That street was not Sapporo below him.

A shower or bath had never failed to bring him back to his own time period before. Maybe it was the same location, but a different time period? Was that a thing?

Or maybe Yuuri was stuck here. Trapped seven years in the future, thousands of miles away from everyone he knew, with no clue how to access his future self's phone or bank accounts. A hysteric laugh piped up from his throat.

“Yuuri!” Victor's voice sang, “We're back! I found the café!”

Away from everyone except his celebrity crush, that is. Who had mistaken Yuuri for his future self and kept flirting with him.

“Yuuri?”

“In a minute,” he called, and hoped his voice sounded normal.

Yuuri let out a shaky breath. He'd have to go to that café after all. It would be too awkward to run around flashing _Victor_ _♥_ _Yuuri_ at everyone in public, no matter how warm it made him feel inside. He poured some more of the rubbing alcohol over his wrist and scrubbed off the last of the ink.

He hadn't bothered bringing a change of clothes _into_ the bathroom, since he hadn't expected to see this place again. Nor had he brought back the dressing gown. Thank god this room opened directly to the bedroom.

He was rummaging through the closet, trying to find a shirt that did not make him look like a complete dork, when Victor wolf-whistled behind him.

“Um,” he said articulately, since he couldn't exactly ask Victor _not_ to barge into his own bedroom.

“Hey,” Victor purred back, blatantly looking Yuuri up and down.

At least Yuuri had managed to put on his slacks first, but his blush went all the way down to his chest. Victor's eyes flickered when he saw Yuuri's bare arms.

“Sorry,” Yuuri said. “I'm almost ready. Can you, um...”

“No need to rush on my account,” Victor said with a smile. “But I'd be happy to help you get dressed.”

“Th-that's alright.”

Yuuri looked away and grabbed the first shirt he could, and slipped it on while feeling Victor's eyes raking across his back. He sat down on the bed and put on his socks.

“Hmm, maybe later,” Victor murmured from the doorway, “But skating first.”

Yuuri looked up at him. He was smirking at Yuuri's chest. Yuuri felt a drop of dread pool in his stomach, and lowered his gaze.

His shirt depicted an old videogame cartridge, with the caption, “Blow me.”

“Which god did I piss off?” he muttered. “And why couldn't they smite me instead?”

“I'm not into smiting,” said Victor. “I'm just going to make you work on your quad flip.” He winked. “For now.”

Yuuri's head jerked up, and he felt the blood drain from his face. He could barely manage a triple flip. Even Victor hadn't landed a quad flip until 2010!

Wait. If _Victor_ was going to make Yuuri work on the quad flip, then that could only mean one thing.

“Something wrong?” Victor said, tilting his head.

Yuuri stared at him, trying to keep his thoughts off his face. He shook his head.

“Well, in that case, I would like to leave soon,” Victor said. “The café does a lot of business! There will be a crowd if we don't hurry.”

“ _Say three nice things about yourself,”_ Victor had said last night. “ _Coach's orders.”_

Yuuri stood up, stunned silent, and followed his coach out into St. Petersburg.


	6. Jermuk and Dzhash

The moment Yuuri stepped through the door, he felt under-dressed.

Victor had brought them to an Armenian café of tall windows and rosewood paneling. Or at least, it was shaped like a café, but the patrons ate unrecognizable dishes that looked more like full meals, and drank wine from actual goblets. The air was thick with the scent of old books and foreign spices. A handwritten menu hung overhead in Russian and Armenian.

The door clattered shut behind them, and several patrons turned to stare, their gazes hungry in a way that made Yuuri shrink back.

Victor leaned close to Yuuri's ear. “We've been spotted.”

Yuuri tightened his hand around Victor's, and tried to look everywhere except at other humans. But even at this hour, most of the tables were taken. At one of the outdoor tables, a group of college students were gawking openly and giggling to each other.

“ _You've_ been spotted,” Yuuri said.

Victor straightened up and smiled. “If you say so.”

One of the students sidled up to them, wringing her hands. She mumbled something in Russian, eyes round and bright, and held up her phone.

Victor beamed. He said something that made her squeal and rush back to her friends. He walked back outside. Yuuri stayed where he was, alone and unsure where to stand while he waited. Hopefully, Victor wouldn't take too long to attend to his fans.

Victor waved at him through the window. Yuuri blinked, and pointed to himself. Victor nodded and beckoned him over with both arms. Behind Victor, the Russian students chattered and bounced on their heels, and several of them waved at Yuuri, too.

Yuuri looked down at his _Blow me_ shirt. He had definitely pissed off one of the gods.

Victor waved at him again, more impatient this time. Yuuri gulped. He took a deep breath, and approached the group of students. Victor looped an arm around his shoulders and pulled him forward.

One of the students pointed to the shirt and said something that made the rest of the group crack up laughing. Yuuri reddened. He leaned into Victor's side and fixed his eyes on the ground.

He couldn't follow a thing the Russians were saying, but the gestures for “take a picture” and “sign an autograph” needed no translation. Cameras flashed in his eyes. Incomprehensible words rattled his ears. He tried stepping out of the way, because surely the fans just wanted to talk to Victor. But that led to two of them surrounding him, saying “Yuuri!” in between long strings of Russian.

One boy tilted his head and asked Yuuri something that sounded like a question. Yuuri froze, eyes wide and face pale. The boy repeated his question. Yuuri's eyes darted to Victor, but Victor was smiling and conversing easily with the other students. Something about his smile looked odd.

The boy was frowning now, looking hurt. He held out a pen and notepad. Yuuri bit his lip and stepped back. The boy's arms dropped to his side, and his shoulders slumped.

Yuuri rubbed the back of his neck. “I'm sorry. I don't know Russian.”

Victor looked over his shoulder at that, smile flickering. He walked over and lay his hand on Yuuri's back.

“I'll take care of our fans. You go on inside. Jermuk and dzhash for me, thanks.”

He gently nudged Yuuri back towards the café, and said something that made the Russian boy perk up. Yuuri wove his way past them. He skidded to a halt inside, head spinning and finally able to breathe again. Here, too, he heard mutterings of Russian, but at least now these customers were staring at their laptops instead of at him.

The clerk at the register said something, probably a greeting, and Yuuri startled. He struggled to make eye contact, and hid his hands in his pockets to keep them from shaking.

“Um, hi?” His voice cracked. Smooth, Yuuri, real smooth.

The clerk giggled and repeated her greeting, and said something that sounded like a question.

Wait, he still had to order, didn't he? Yuuri paled.

“English?” he tried.

The clerk shrugged in apology.

Yuuri winced and looked at his feet. Was his older self supposed to speak Russian? Would Victor get upset with him if he couldn't?

The clerk handed him a menu, but Yuuri knew no Russian beyond a few skating terms, and he couldn't read Armenian at all. After a few seconds of his eyes darting back and forth, he handed the menu back and stepped away from the counter.

A horrible thought struck him. What if he was stuck here forever, surrounded by a language he couldn't speak?

Victor strolled in, waved at the clerk and exclaimed something else cheerful, charming, and unhelpfully Russian. Great. He'd see that Yuuri had stood around uselessly, instead of doing the one job Victor had asked of him.

“Yuuri?” Victor lowered his voice and leaned in.

Yuuri shut his eyes and wrapped his arms around himself. Everything was too loud, too bright, there were too many people, and then there was _Victor_ who was sensory overload all by himself. Victor was saying something, probably in English now. But it was more noise on top of noise. Victor put an arm over his shoulders, and it was _too much too close too much._ But telling Victor to go away would have drained Yuuri's energy even further, and it would have made Yuuri feel awful to boot.

Victor pulled him off to the side of the café. Yuuri stared at his feet the whole time, until he heard a door shut behind them and the noise cut off. Tile floor meant bathroom. Yuuri pulled away from him, and slid down the wall until he was hunched in on himself on the floor.

He shuddered. Victor was going to hate him now. He'd figure out that Yuuri didn't speak Russian. He'd be upset that Yuuri had been rude to Victor's fans, he'd accuse Yuuri of making him look bad, he'd yell and demand to know where _his_ Yuuri had gone.

Yuuri swallowed and shook his head. No. That was ridiculous. No one thought “time travel” because their friend didn't buy them coffee. Instead, he would just think Yuuri was stupid and useless. It had happened to Yuuri plenty of times, when future-people expected him to know things that he hadn't experienced yet, and got angry at him for forgetting.

Victor sat down beside him. “Sorry, was that bad?”

“It's fine,” Yuuri lied, chin on his knees.

He mentally kicked himself. Victor could clearly see that Yuuri was _not_ fine.

Victor was silent for several long moments, frowning at the wall and with a finger on his lips. When he spoke, it was slow and over-pronounced.

“Sorry. Should have not left you alone? Can I in any way help?”

It took Yuuri's panic-fogged brain a second to pick up on the cadence of the words. When he did, he raised his head and stared at Victor.

“ _Japanese?_ ” he asked.

Victor gave him a tight smile, and continued in the same language. “Thought Russian or English maybe was too many right now.”

“Too much right now,” Yuuri mumbled, eyes wide and mouth flat as he processed this.

Not just Japanese. _Hasetsu_ Japanese. A non-standard dialect from out in the sticks, never shown on TV or taught in textbooks. It would be like if Yuuri went to America drawling, “Howdy, pardner! Let's wrassle us a burro!”

“Ah, thank you,” Victor said, still in awkward Japanese. “Does it help? Sometimes when there is stress, there is not enough brain for talking. And Russian. And...” He huffed and waved a hand at the air. “How do I say армянский in Japanese?”

Yuuri's mouth quirked up as he listened, face still half hidden behind his knees. “I don't know what that word is. 'Not enough brain'?”

Victor heaved a dramatic sigh and pressed the back of his arm to his forehead.

“Words are _hard_ , Yuuri.”

“Did you just dab at me?” Yuuri asked, eyes wide and lips twitching.

Victor smiled blankly back at him. “Dab?”

Yuuri couldn't help it. He laughed. He felt bad about it at first, since Victor had gone to the trouble of learning Yuuri's language and Yuuri hadn't done the same for him. But then Victor dabbed _again_ , looking downright forlorn.

“So mean,” Victor mused, hand over his heart in completely fake despair. “I am heart-broke. I have sadness. Many sadness.”

“You're faking that,” Yuuri accused, in between chuckles. “You _know_ how to say that properly.”

Victor's “many sadness” vanished, replaced by an impish grin. His shoulders hunched up and he leaned towards Yuuri, and his eyes crinkled at the edges. It looked worlds different from the smile he had given his fans earlier.

“Maybe,” he said, switching to English. “Feeling better?”

Yuuri's face warmed at that. “Yeah. Thanks.”

“Okay. Want me to order for us?”

Yuuri closed his eyes, and took a deep breath. “What did you want again?”

“Jermuk and dzhash.”

“Right.”

With that, Yuuri stood up. He washed his hands, and walked out of the restroom, leaving Victor to follow. Yuuri approached the counter again, shoulders back and mouth set. The clerk raised her eyebrows and smiled at him.

“Excuse me,” he said in English, even though she didn't speak it. “Jermuk and dzhash.” He pointed at Victor as he spoke, then at himself. “Jermuk and dzhash.”

The clerk gave him a thumbs up and repeated the words to confirm them. Yuuri had a brief moment of panic before remembering that he had his wallet in his pocket. He found and handed over his credit card without any trouble, but a glimpse at his driver's license twinged at his heart. That face still didn't feel like his.

Yuuri's chest tightened. What if he had to get used to looking like this?

The clerk handed him back his card, and a receipt with his order number. She passed him two bottles of water. Or at least, it looked like water. Yuuri bowed his head briefly in thanks. He hurried to grab a table in the corner of the café, away from the windows. His composure lasted exactly as long as it took him to collapse into his seat. He leaned back, let out the breath he'd been holding, and closed his eyes.

With a squeak and a rustle of fabric, Victor sat down across from him.

“Thank you,” said Victor.

Yuuri grunted. “Took me long enough.”

“It's alright. Sometimes things take a while.”

Yuuri cracked open an eye. Victor was leaning forward, fingers steepled in front of him. How he managed to look unruffled after sliding down the wall of a public bathroom, Yuuri didn't know.

Yuuri watched him for a moment. “Don't you ever get tired of this?”

Victor tilted his head. “Tired of what?”

Yuuri didn't answer immediately. He paused, picked up his bottle, and unscrewed his cap. He took a sip—mineral water after all—and swallowed.

In a small voice, he said, “Dealing with me.”

“No.”

The flat, almost abrupt reply made Yuuri glance up. Victor's body was still, his gaze steady. Yuuri had to look away, and took another drink to cover it up.

“I don't deal with you,” Victor said. “You deal with you. You fall, you get up again, you keep going.” He rested his chin on one hand and smiled. “It's one of my favorite things about you.”

Yuuri shrunk down in his seat, face aflame. His stomach was stupid, to keep flip-flopping like this. Victor wasn't even talking _to_ Yuuri, he was talking to the person Yuuri looked like.

Under the table, Victor's shoe tapped Yuuri's leg.

“Yuuri,” Victor drawled, “As your coach, I want you to come up with three things you like about yourself.”

Yuuri frowned at him. “Again?”

“I'm not letting you into the rink with your 'I'm a loser' face on. Ah, there's the dzhash.”

Victor got up to retrieve their order with Yuuri's incredulous stare on his back. Yuuri bit his lip. Victor couldn't _stop_ Yuuri from skating, right? No, wait, this was Russia. Victor could probably do anything he wished as long as he kept winning gold medals.

Except for keeping track of his keys.

Yuuri stifled a snort.

Victor returned and set down their plates. Dzhash turned out to be a stew of meat and green beans with tomato sauce and garlic, served over rice pilaf. It was heavier than what Yuuri usually had for breakfast, but tasted excellent. He tucked a spare napkin into his pocket.

Victor pointed at Yuuri with his spoon. “Three things.”

Yuuri groaned and rubbed his forehead. Victor's smile turned downright gleeful.

“Okay.” Yuuri stared at his stew, swirling the spoon around. “I'm a hard worker.”

Victor raised a finger. “That's one.”

“Um. I'm a pretty good cook.”

Nowhere near as good as his mom, whose pork bowl recipe was sometimes the only thing that kept him from fleeing during a competition.

“Two,” Victor said, voice breaking that melancholy thought.

One more thing Yuuri liked about himself. His mind went blank. He struggled to find good things in himself, but could imagine many things he wished he was better at. And here, he was constantly reminded of how much better his older self _was_.

His eyes flickered to Victor. Victor still had two fingers in the air, and his lip twitched when their eyes met. Victor had plenty of likable traits. Perhaps that's why he kept doing this: he found it easy to love himself, and assumed Yuuri did, too.

“Victor?”

“Hmm?”

“Why are you...”

He cut himself off from asking “Why are you spending time on me?” just in time. His question hung heavy in his throat, but asking it was dangerous territory. It would only reveal that Yuuri didn't know what he was supposed to know. And that would make Victor suspicious.

Victor raised an eyebrow. “Why am I what?”

Crap, he had to think fast.

“Why are you...eating dzhash?”

Yuuri wanted to smack himself. Victor only looked confused.

“Because you recommended it to me?”

God _damn_ it. Yuuri actually did smack himself. “Sorry. I'm being stupid. Forget it.”

Victor tapped Yuuri's leg with his foot again.

“You never said the third thing you liked about yourself.”

“Can we drop it?”

“Just one thing.”

Yuuri hunched his shoulders and looked away. Why did Victor have to be persistent? Sure, his intentions were good, but couldn't he see that this was making Yuuri uncomfortable?

“Fine,” Yuuri said. “I like the fact that I know when to stop pushing and let people be.”

In the corner of his vision, Victor went still.

Yuuri glanced sidelong at him, and caught only a split second of frowning before Victor smiled again. It was the odd smile from earlier. Polished, charming, and a little too symmetrical.

“And three,” Victor said, lowering his hand. “So, about getting Makkachin a friend.”

Yuuri blinked. “What?”

“You know, to help her stay active. I hear it's good for older dogs. Puppies are cute, but I'm not sure we'd have the time to train one. Perhaps an adult dog would be better.”

Victor mused about the idea as they ate. At first it seemed like a sudden change in topic, but with the focus off Yuuri, he found himself relaxing. This was a safe zone. Victor asked him occasionally for his thoughts on poodles versus mutts, or shelters versus rescue groups, but mostly he was thinking out loud. Yuuri's lip quirked up as he watched him.

“Thanks,” Yuuri said.

Victor's eyebrows rose for a moment. “For what?”

“Changing the subject. I'd say check the shelter first.”

Victor paused for a moment, before nodding, and talking about Makkachin some more. Yuuri listened, humming at the times he thought Victor expected it, and let Victor ramble.

Yuuri's eyes wandered around the café. With a full stomach and his breath steady again, it didn't seem quite as alien. The patrons here bent over their laptops and sipped their coffee just like café-goers in Hasetsu. Sunbeams glinted off folk art on the walls. Two mothers strolled arm-in-arm outside, their little boy running ahead.

He peeked over the rim of his glasses at Victor. Victor Nikiforov, his idol, who learned his language and made him tea when he panicked, whose smile shone like the Sun in summertime. Victor, who had somehow fallen in love with Yuuri in this timeline. Or so he claimed. He might have just been acting nice about that.

Yuuri shut his eyes and shook his head. No. That was his stupid anxiety talking.

Victor paused, fork in mid-air. “Are you okay?”

“I'm fine.”

Victor was not cruel enough to pretend to love someone. If he said he loved Yuuri, he meant it. Yuuri had only known Victor for a few hours, too brief to know what his own feelings were. But, if he stayed here, could he grow to love Victor back?

Victor tilted his head, a slight frown on his face. He locked eyes with Yuuri, reached across the table, and squeezed Yuuri's hand: a silent message of support.

Yuuri gulped. He nodded once. Victor's lip twitched up, and he let go. Yuuri's hand burned where Victor had touched him. He lowered his gaze and fidgeted with the paper napkin in his pocket.

If he had to, could he build a life here? In this future, Yuuri was a champion, and he'd achieved more than he'd ever dreamed. Strangers asked him for autographs, even outside Japan. He didn't have to worry about money. He wouldn't have to figure out his career anymore. And his boyfriend was Victor freaking Nikiforov.

All he had to do was pretend to be someone else.

The napkin tore in his fingers.


	7. Flip Out

The moment they walked through the door to Victor's rink—the _front_ door this time—Yuuri regretted it.

People. People everywhere, more than could fit in Ice Castle Hasetsu, even if they stood shoulder-to-shoulder. Bright lights that glinted off display cases full of medals and trophies. The soft yet intricate syllables of Russian, murmured and shouted and laughed.

As they headed to the rink side, Yuuri stayed close to Victor and glanced at the strangers from the corner of his eye. They ranged from other skaters, to coaches, to employees. An electronics team was preparing cameras and lights for the ice show.

The other skaters greeted Yuuri, mostly in Russian. But he also caught a few _Hellos_ and _Bonjours_ , from foreign skaters who must have come to perform here. Yuuri didn't trust himself to pronounce anything they had said correctly. He kept quiet and waved back at them.

Victor put an arm around Yuuri's shoulders, and shouted back something equally cheerful and incomprehensible. His arm stayed there. Yuuri tensed under the touch. Was it really okay to do that? In front of all these other skaters? On the other hand, his inner fanboy was dying and ascending to Heaven.

Victor stopped walking and glanced at Yuuri, a slight frown on his face. He raised his eyebrows and lifted his hand slightly, a silent question. A chance to pull away. Yuuri met his eyes for a second. Then, he leaned into Victor's side and wrapped an arm around his waist.

If people were watching, fine. Let them watch. The sight of Victor's face lighting up made it worth it.

“ _Pepsi!_ ”

They looked up, and a man in front of them lowered his camera-phone to reveal deep black hair and a Hollywood-star smile. Yuuri flushed and ducked his head. Victor squeezed his shoulder a little, and that helped.

“Phichit!” Victor said. “You're early!”

“Please, as if I would wait any longer,” Phichit said, pocketing his phone. His English was faster and smoother than Yuuri's, with a faint Thai lilt. “My children need to meet their father. Yuuri!”

Yuuri startled. “Yes?”

Phichit's face grew serious, and he clasped his hands in Yuuri's. Despite being three inches shorter than Yuuri and at least fifteen pounds lighter, he managed to loom ominously.

“Yuuri. It's been years. How will they grow up well-adjusted if they never see you?”

Yuuri paled, and stared back at Phichit in alarm. What had his future self been _doing?_

“For shame, Yuuri,” Victor said, stepping back and crossing his arms. “I never even knew.”

Yuuri was about to flinch at that, until he noticed the smile tugging at the corner of Victor's mouth. Yuuri glanced back and forth between them.

“ _You_ ,” Phichit said, mock-glaring and pointing at Victor, “would have been a bad influence.”

“The worst,” Victor agreed.

Phichit's glare broke into a smile. “But seriously, thanks. I couldn't have gotten them into the country without you.”

“My pleasure. Are they here now?”

“Come and see!”

Yuuri stumbled in bewilderment as Phichit dragged him down a hallway. Victor followed them, gleefully unhelpful. Yuuri's mind whirled from custody battles to human trafficking, heart pounding with every step. But something about the situation wasn't adding up.

For one thing, Yuuri was gay, and it was rather difficult for two men to have children by accident. For another, why would it be hard to bring your kids into Russia? And Victor _probably_ was not involved in anything horribly illegal.

Phichit pushed open the door to a locker room. He looked back and forth, then pulled them inside. He sat Yuuri down at a bench, then dropped down to a locker and opened the lock. Victor stood next to him, smile widening every second.

And finally, why was Phichit's locker squeaking?

Phichit swung open the door, pulled out a large box, and squatted down in front of Yuuri. The box had air holes, and was making rustling noises. Phichit lifted the lid.

“Yuuri. I present to you, our sons!”

Two hamsters peeked out, each in separate compartments with cozy bedding, food and water, and squeaked at Yuuri hopefully.

Yuuri gaped for a second, blinked, and started laughing.

“They're beautiful, Phichit.”

Phichit pointed to each one in turn. “The black one is Rocker, and the golden one is Bracket. Bracket's still shy with people other than me, but Rocker is a party animal.”

Yuuri smiled at them. “Aww. Thank you for showing them to me.”

“Psht.” Phichit sat on the bench beside Yuuri, and placed Rocker on Yuuri's lap. “They're our babies. What kind of hamster dad would I be if we didn't have family reunions?”

A pang shot through Yuuri's heart, along with the image of his own family and Vicchan. It soon turned to nervousness. Phichit must have known him well, but Yuuri didn't know him at all. Yuuri had just started getting used to Victor. Having to figure out where he stood with another stranger, all over again, made his skin go clammy.

Yuuri focused on the feeling of Rocker's tiny weight on his leg, and the hamster's fur under his fingers. Rocker sniffed his hand. He walked up the fabric of Yuuri's pants, whiskers twitching, then looked straight up at Yuuri and squeaked.

Victor snorted. “A law-abiding hamster dad, perhaps?”

“Wow, _rude_ ,” Phichit said. “I thought you wanted me here!”

Yuuri raised an eyebrow and looked back and forth at them. Victor and Phichit glanced back at him, and Phichit giggled.

Victor pasted on an overly innocent smile. “Do you remember how I got Makkachin into Japan?”

Yuuri narrowed his eyes. If it wouldn't blow his cover, he would have asked what Makkachin was doing in Japan in the first place.

Out loud, he said, “Right.”

Victor beamed. “Well, there you go.”

Phichit cleared his throat. “Speaking of other countries...”

“Ah, yes.” Victor tapped his chin. “You wanted to talk about planning a show?”

Phichit's eyes lit up. “I want to promote figure skating back in Thailand. I was thinking that ice shows would spark people's interest. Plus, I love doing ice shows.”

Victor hummed, and nodded.

“That could work. Have you ever organized something like this before?”

“No. I thought I'd ask you about it? Since you do this stuff all the time.” Phichit rubbed the back of his neck. “If that's cool with you?”

“Sure! But I should warn you that the skating is the easy part.”

“What's the hard part?”

“Getting funding, especially if you haven't organized a show before. Finding reliable people. Keeping track of who does what, who knows what, who's going to be where and when. Paperwork. So much paperwork.”

Yuuri stared at him. “You have to manage all _that_?”

“Not all of it.” Victor shrugged. “That's what delegation is for. It's like running a business, you form a routine after a while.”

Phichit looked up from his screen.

“So, basically everything.”

“Basically.” Victor cocked his head, half-smiling. “Do you still want to do it?”

“Hell, yeah.”

“Good. I've got a conference call with my event team in an hour. You're welcome to sit in on it and see my notes if you want.”

“That'd be awesome, thanks!”

A stomping noise came down the hallway, and a pale, blond teenager poked his head in.

“Oi! Victor! Are you done here? I want to go through my routine before my cat is old enough to vote.”

“Shh,” Phichit said, finger to his lips. “You'll scare the baby.”

He cast a meaningful look at the sleeping hamster in Yuuri's hands. The teenager wrinkled his nose.

“Yakov wouldn't sit around petting a rodent.”

“Yakov is taking a well-deserved vacation,” Victor replied mildly.

“No shit.” Yurio leaned over the hamster. “Tch. Potya could _eat_ that thing.”

“No!” Phichit gasped, raising his hands to his cheeks. “You wouldn't dare.”

“Then get your butts on the ice so I don't have to.”

“Easy, Yurio,” Victor said. “I'll be with you in a moment. I had to say hi to Yuuri's children first.”

Yurio made a gagging sound and stomped back down the hallway. Yuuri and Phichit stared at the empty doorway.

Phichit glanced at Yuuri. “He definitely needs hamster therapy.”

“True.” Victor stood to leave. “But he has a point. You two catch up. I'll make sure he isn't climbing the walls.”

After Victor left, Phichit leaned over and nudged Yuuri's shoulder with his.

“What's up with you and Victor?”

“Nothing. We're fine.”

Phichit raised an eyebrow. “If you say so. Want to hold Bracket now?”

“Sure, if he's ready?”

In some ways, Phichit was easier to talk to than Victor. He brushed Yuuri's awkwardness aside, and the hamsters were a safe topic Yuuri used to subtly fish for information about Phichit's life and their friendship. By the time they had to leave the locker room, Yuuri was wishing he had a Phichit in his own era.

Phichit left him by the rink door and took to the ice. Yuuri gulped, and craned his head around. He recognized Yurio and Christophe Giacometti, but the other half-dozen skaters were unknown to him. Victor was leaning across the rink boards, talking to Yurio, but Yuuri hesitated to interrupt them.

The twisting in his stomach grew worse. Keeping up a brave face in front of Victor was hard. Doing the same for a second person was exhausting. Trying to decipher his future self's relationships with _all_ of these people at once, and avoid saying anything suspicious, would be impossible. Yuuri's muscles felt like lead, and he had to remind himself to breathe.

Yurio skated off, and Victor waved in the corner of Yuuri's vision. Yuuri let out a breath. He hurried over, relaxing when he saw that Victor already had both their skates.

“So,” he began. The words stuck in his throat.

Victor patted the bench beside him. “So.”

Yuuri grabbed the skates from Victor's hand, sat down, and pulled off his shoes.

Victor shifted beside him. “I could do—”

“No, I'm good.”

“Ah.”

Victor's voice was quiet. But when Yuuri looked up, Victor was smiling.

“I wasn't kidding about the quad flip,” he said. “But only twice. There's still plenty of time before next season.”

Yuuri paused, hands on his laces. Were they not in season now?

“Um, what's the date?”

Victor furrowed his brows. “Isn't it always on your arm?”

“What?”

Yuuri followed Victor's gaze down to his arms, where Yuuri had scrubbed the ink off himself a few hours before. He frowned at his skin. Victor had put a string of numbers on him, but hadn't that been an anniversary?

“Oh, right,” Victor said. “You wiped it off. It's May 11th.”

His tone was flat, and he glanced away.

So, just a normal date then. Yuuri shoved down the pang of disappointment in his chest. They were in the off-season. No need to practice a routine right now. As long as he didn't say much or skate like drunk toddler, he'd be able to survive this. Hopefully.

He tucked in the laces of his skates. “Actually, can I take it easy today?”

Victor leaned forward, hands on his knees.

“Are you not feeling well?”

“I'm fine.” He wasn't, but he didn't want to talk about it. “I was just thinking of skating for fun. Instead of training, I mean. Since it's the off-season and all. Is that alright?”

Victor's lips turned down. He pressed a hand to Yuuri's forehead, making Yuuri flush.

“You feel warm.”

Yuuri gulped, and leaned away. “I said I'm fine.”

“You know it's okay to sit out if you're sick, right? Everyone here knows how hard you've been working.”

The words were well-intended, and Yuuri knew the annoyance building in his gut was irrational. The universe was handing him a reprieve. Hadn't he wanted this?

He stood up, brushed himself off, and walked toward the ice. Victor walked with him, and Yuuri sent him a firm look.

“I'm _not_ sick,” he said. He lay his glasses and skate guards on the rink boards. “And I'm going to skate.”

“If you start to feel—” Victor started, placing his hand over Yuuri's. Yuuri pulled away, and Victor trailed off mid-sentence.

They both looked at the empty space between them.

A reprieve, yes. But it would come at the cost of the person Yuuri admired most thinking Yuuri was weak. And though Yuuri might be weak, he had his pride.

“I'm going to skate,” he repeated. “Please trust that I know my own limits.”

Without waiting for Victor's reply, he swept off onto the ice.

As irrational as his irritation was, Yuuri clung to it as he warmed up. If he didn't feel irritated, he'd start getting anxious again. He skated to an area of the rink far from everyone else, and launched into one of his old step sequences with a vengeance.

He might be anxious, but he wasn't helpless.

He built up speed in preparation for a triple jump. Last night, his older body had felt different from his teenage one, but for compulsory figures it hadn't mattered much. Those were exercises in concentration, not power. A real routine required more speed, strength and agility.

Yuuri lifted off, and downgraded the triple jump to a single. He landed it cleanly but with teeth clenched. This body didn't have the flexibility his younger self had.

 _See, I know my limits,_ he thought, _unlike some people, Mr. Do-A-Quad-Flip._

Granted, Victor could do the quad flip all day long. He could probably rescue puppies and bring rain to the Sahara if he skated a routine about it. The worst part was, he likely believed that Yuuri could do the same. And Yuuri would have to watch Victor's face fall, and the light dim in his eyes, as Yuuri disappointed him.

_Some of us aren't that good, Victor._

Yuuri looped around the corner of the rink, ignoring the stares he was getting from the other skaters, who must have wondered why _this_ loser was allowed to share their ice. He pressed his lips together and angled himself for an Ina Bauer.

_Some of us will try, and try, but we still can't, and you've got to accept it. So don't tell me what I can or can't do._

“Oi, Katsudon! Hey! _Katsuki!_ ”

Yuuri felt another twinge of annoyance as Yurio interrupted his concentration. Yurio had his lip curled up in a sneer. Not that Yuuri had expected a better reception.

“Did your legs stop working?” Yurio asked. “You're better than this. Act like it.”

Yuuri frowned at him, then kicked off at high speed.

_You know what? Forget that. I'm going to wipe that smug look off your face._

He jumped, throwing the strength of his older body behind it. He lifted himself up from the left foot, toe-picking with his right. Arms in, for maximum air. One rotation. Two rotations. Three.

On four, his mind blanked and the world roared in his ears, and the sheer shock of _doing_ it brought him crashing down to earth.

Yuuri blinked up at the arena lights, heart pounding and ice seeping into his clothes. He felt none of it. Even flat on his back, the ground seemed to be tilting, and the hiss of other approaching skaters felt muted in his ears.

Victor skated over to him. “Yuuri! Are you alright?”

“What the hell was that?” asked Yurio, from Yuuri's other side.

Victor sent Yurio a flat stare, and Yurio shifted and looked away.

“I mean,” he said, clearing his throat, “you okay?”

Yuuri sat up, and felt his head for lumps. None. No pain in his ankles or legs. He'd gotten the wind knocked out of him, that was all.

“Yeah,” he said. “I'm fine.”

Other than the fact that he had wrecked a quad flip.

The worst part was that the muscle memory had been there. He could have landed it. But no, he had to screw up, and in front of Victor and other internationally-ranked skaters, after Victor himself had invited Yuuri to skate with them.

Yuuri pulled himself to his feet on shaking knees. His hands trembled and he kept his head down, away from the judgment in the others skaters' eyes.

Yurio slid in front of him, toe pick kicking at the ice. “What's wrong with you?”

Yuuri drew a breath to answer, but his throat tightened, and no sound came out.

He shut his eyes. There was no way he would be able to keep this up. People were going to wonder. Best case scenario, everyone would ask him “What's wrong?” and “Are you feeling okay?” and having to fend them off would drain his scarce emotional resources until he broke down or snapped. And _t_ _hat_ would make everyone hover over him even more.

The worst case scenario looked like the best case scenario, except that everyone was furious instead of worried.

“Yuuri?”

He dared to look up. Victor was watching him, head tilted and one finger over his lips. Yuuri winced and looked away again. He did not want to think about Victor at this moment. Because it was easy to imagine Victor's voice when Yuuri had disappointed him again.

“ _You idiot!”_

No, that wasn't real. Yuuri wrapped his arms around himself and stared at a fixed point on the floor. It wasn't real, and Victor didn't hate him. At least, not yet.

“Yuuri,” Victor's voice said, hand soft on Yuuri's shoulder, “It's alright. Everything is alright.”

“ _I can't believe I ever wasted my time on you. Get out of my sight.”_

Everything wasn't alright. Yuuri was trapped in the wrong time period and in the wrong country, and he had no clue how to unlock his cell phone or get home or even just be _alone_ for a few minutes. The only person even slightly friendly was Victor. Victor, who was kind and patient and a little weird, and that would only make it hurt more when he inevitably got fed up with Yuuri's problems.

Yuuri left the rink after his fall. Victor and Phichit offered to go outside with him, but more attention was the last thing he needed right now. Besides, they had ice show plans to attend to. So Yuuri put away his skates, avoiding Victor's concerned gaze.

He spent the next half hour wandering the boulevard back towards Victor's apartment. He stopped on the bridge, and leaned over the railing. The wind here smelled of rain and asphalt, and the Sun shone softer than in the hot summers of Japan.

Seven years and twenty-four hours ago, Yuuri had thought his future forked in two directions: Japan, or Detroit. Education, or skating. Give up one dream, or give up the other? He shivered. High school graduation was approaching fast, and then he'd be forced to make a choice.

But what if he was stuck here? What if this was a third path, one that skipped over the decision he dreaded, and handed him a new life? How was he supposed to live up to this?

A seagull walked up to him and honked. Yuuri shooed it away, and the bird nipped at his trainers before flying off in a huff. A familiar pair of dress shoes strode into view.

“Sorry for making you wait.”

Yuuri glanced up to see Victor, eyes soft and brows furrowed.

“It's alright.”

He shrugged and looked at the river below them. Victor was silent for a second, then stood next to him on the bridge. He leaned his elbows on the railing, and let out a long sigh. His shoulders slumped and he hung his head, and he looked very, very tired.

Yuuri's brows knit together, and he bit his lip. He turned back to Victor, knuckles white around the metal bars, and watched him from the corner of his eye.

“Victor?” His voice was barely above a whisper.

“What am I doing wrong?”

Yuuri blinked and jerked his shoulders up. “What?”

“I know I messed up,” Victor said, frowning down at the water. “I truly am sorry about your panic attack last night, and how it's affecting you now. I won't try to surprise you like that again.”

Yuuri hadn't even thought about that today.

Victor continued, “I understand if you're still upset with me. You can feel however you want to feel. But this is a long time for us to be fighting, so am I doing something wrong?”

Yuuri stared, his jaw hanging open a little. _This_ was fighting?

“But you made me tea and took me out for ice skating and brunch?”

“Yes,” Victor said, and ran his fingers through his hair. “And maybe that wasn't what you needed from me. Was I too touchy? Not touchy enough? I don't know. I'm running out of ideas, so please tell me if there's something I should do different. I know I can't fix everything instantly, but I love you, and I can't stand it when you're unhappy because of me.”

As Victor spoke, a sinking feeling crept in to Yuuri's gut. All this time, he had been waiting for Victor to snap at him. But the harsh words never came. Because Victor hadn't blamed Yuuri for his withdrawal: he blamed _himself_.

“Wait, wait,” Yuuri said, waving his hands. “But you didn't do anything wrong?”

Now it was Victor's turn to stare. “I didn't?”

“I mean, I was startled,” Yuuri said, fidgeting and looking at his feet. “But I can't blame you for...” _Offering me_ _sex because I would absolutely want that if we were_ _dating_ _._ “...For what you did. You've been great, it's just. My anxiety.”

Victor watched him for a few moments. “So, you're not mad at me?”

“No?”

“Then why aren't you wearing your ring?”

“What ring?”

Victor flinched.

Yuuri checked his hands. No ring. He looked at Victor's hands, and saw a simple gold band on Victor's right ring finger. The blood drained from Yuuri's face, and he gulped, frozen to the spot.

It looked identical to the ring from Victor's bathroom. The ring that Yuuri had left on the counter. But if he and Victor wore matching rings all the time, did that mean they were...

Yuuri's clothes, hung up next to Victor's in the same closet. Yuuri's videogame collection on Victor's shelves. Victor talking to Yuuri's mom. The love-notes on Yuuri's skin. Casually undressing, sharing a bed, Victor knowing how to tie Yuuri's skates just right.

Victor reaching out a hand towards Yuuri now, then pulling back like he was afraid to touch. Victor, pale and worried. The sight broke something loose in Yuuri's heart.

Yuuri swallowed again. He took a deep breath, and dropped his hands to his sides. It was better for Victor to think Yuuri was crazy, than to blame himself for something that wasn't his fault.

“Victor,” Yuuri said, “I have something to tell you.”

Victor's eyebrows rose. “Okay.”

Yuuri rubbed his arm, and looked back in the direction of Victor's apartment. Should he wait until he had the shower close by, so he could try to escape again if Victor reacted badly? Or should he get the words out, right now, before he lost his nerve?

He closed his eyes. Victor had been extremely patient and understanding with Yuuri so far. And he and future-Yuuri were, well, committed, so he probably wouldn't abandon Yuuri out here. He might think Yuuri was lying, or crazy, or annoying, but he'd at least be outwardly polite about it.

Yuuri raised his head, and curled his hands into fists.

“I'm a time traveler.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Pepsi" is the Thai version of "Say cheese!" or "Smile for the camera!"


	8. Confession

Yuuri had never said those words out loud before, and now, he wished he hadn't. It sounded ridiculous. Especially when Victor knitted his brows together, and tilted his head as if Yuuri had claimed to be a three-legged Martian.

“I mean, um,” Yuuri stammered. “It was the shower. I can time travel when I shower sometimes. But it's an accident and I don't mean for it to happen, in fact I'd rather it never happened at all, and I know it sounds crazy and I thought I _was_ crazy for a long time but...”

Victor tilted his head in the other direction.

“My shower made you time travel.”

“Not your shower!” Yuuri shook his hands. “The one in Sapporo.”

“Sapporo.”

“I mean, maybe?” Yuuri said, palms to the sky. “I thought it was just the one in my house, but I finished Nationals in Sapporo and it happened there, too? So maybe it's me and not the shower?” He cringed. “God, I hope it's not me.”

Victor frowned and stared at Yuuri for a few seconds.

“I'm not sure what you're feeling right now,” he said. “But to me, you look like the same Yuuri I always see.”

“I know,” Yuuri said. “It's only my mind that time travels. I know I look twenty-five but I feel like I'm eighteen.”

Victor's knuckles went white around the railing, and his face shifted from skepticism to wide-eyed alarm.

“I think,” he said, voice wavering, “that I'll need to be sitting down for this.”

He pried himself off the railing, shoved his hands in his pockets, and began walking back toward his apartment with his eyes on the ground. Yuuri, stomach in knots, fell into step beside him. At the end of the bridge, Victor turned off the main road and walked down to the river bank, where he led them to an empty bench near the water. He sat down, and patted the space beside him. Yuuri sat.

Victor asked, “Are you feeling alright?”

Yuuri rubbed his forehead. Great. Victor thought he was nuts. Not that it was surprising, but it still hurt.

Victor brushed his fingers through Yuuri's hair. Yuuri tensed, and Victor drew his hand away.

“You fell, earlier. I didn't think you were hurt, but you did hit your head.”

“It's not that.”

“There's a medic on site at the rink. It can't hurt to have a check-up.”

Yuuri's eyes darted away, stomach sinking. A hundred people had asked him these same questions over the years. His protests had never earned him a better response than condescending pity.

“I don't want to see a medic.”

“Are you sure? Sometimes a concussion takes hours to appear, and by then—”

“It's not a concussion!”

Victor shut up, hands raised. Yuuri wrapped his arms around himself, trying to slow his shaking chest before he became light-headed.

“Please,” he said, “just listen to me. I know how stupid it sounds, but I need you to listen.”

Victor's hands lowered, and he folded them in his lap.

“I'm listening.”

Yuuri brought his knees up to his chest and stared over them, out at the river glittering like a million tiny knives in the sunlight. From here, the water looked calm, but there was probably a powerful current churning just below the surface. Yuuri breathed, in and out, and spoke.

“I time-traveled last night. It happens sometimes, when I'm in the shower. I opened the shower curtain and I didn't know where or when I was.” He broke off and took another breath. “And you were there, and you were so nice to me, but I got scared so I pushed you away.”

“Yuuri...”

“I'm not mad at you. I'm just scared, because I'm seven years in the future and I don't know if I can go home, and I'm in Russia and don't know anybody and I can't speak any Russian. And...” God, this was the hardest part. “I'm scared of disappointing you and ruining this.”

He buried his face in his knees, not ready to see the doubts on Victor's face. All he heard was the rumble of cars across the bridge, and Victor drumming his fingers on the metal bars of the bench.

“I was wondering about that,” Victor said. “At the café, when the students approached us. It's not like you to brush off your fans.”

“It's not like me to _have_ fans.”

“There.” Victor's voice sharpened. “That sentence isn't like you, either.”

Huh. So future-Yuuri was more confident, after all.

Victor said, “And the café happened _before_ you fell at the rink. I thought it was just nerves at the time.”

“Well, it was also that.”

“You said the...time travel happened last night. And that's why you had a panic attack.”

Yuuri dared to look up. He nodded.

Victor fell silent for a long minute, and with each moment Yuuri's stomach twisted tighter. He was about to start babbling when Victor spoke again.

“At the rink last night, you mentioned your grades as if you were still in school.”

Yuuri fidgeted with the hem of his shirt. “Yeah.”

“When we left the ice, and when we returned this morning, you didn't want me to tie your skates. Nor did you want me to see you undress. You were more surprised than you should have been, by Phichit's hamsters.”

His eyes flickered to Yuuri's hands. “And you're not wearing your ring.”

Yuuri winced. When Victor spelled it out like that, it became obvious that Yuuri hadn't blended in at all.

“You're not on drugs,” Victor said. “A head injury wouldn't explain those things happening _before_ you fell. The only other thing I can imagine is that somehow you're having delusions, even though you never had them before. Not even on your worst days.”

As he spoke, he tapped his chin in thought, and studied Yuuri's face. His gaze was sharp, but not unkind.

“Since I've known you, you've only gotten better at managing your anxiety and talking to people about your problems. It doesn't make sense that you'd lose touch with reality now, without any apparent cause. And unless this is some sort of bizarre prank...”

“I wouldn't do that!”

“I didn't think you would,” Victor said, more gently. His lip quirked up. “Honestly, time travel seems like the most reasonable option here.”

Yuuri stared back at him. He was frozen to his seat, brain shuttered and muscles rigid, ready to bolt at any moment. But Victor wasn't laughing or sneering. His words sunk in, and with them, a weight began to ease off Yuuri's back.

“You believe me,” he said, slouching down on the bench and letting his cheek rest against the metal.

“I have questions,” Victor said. “But yes. And it's better than wondering why you were mad at me.” He grimaced. “You said you're eighteen?”

“Yeah.”

Victor cringed like a cat doused in ice water.

“I am so sorry,” he said, hand covering his face. “I must have come off as a total creep.”

“It's okay. You didn't know.” Yuuri cleared his throat. “I figured future-Yuuri had something going on with you, and I was accidentally interrupting it.”

The fact that Yuuri had been daydreaming about him for years also helped.

“Still,” Victor said, looking away. “If I ever did anything that made you uncomfortable, I apologize. I won't touch you anymore. I promise.”

Yuuri's heart sank at those words. Victor didn't need to apologize for anything. He had logically assumed Yuuri was his twenty-five year old fiance(?), and had always backed off when Yuuri had shown discomfort.

Yuuri snuck another glance at Victor's hand. His stomach flip-flopped at the golden ring there.

“But that means, your first impression of me was also...” Victor trailed off, then his eyes went wide and he blurted, “You mean it happened _twice_?!”

Yuuri's shoulders jerked up. “What did?”

“And you still married me,” Victor said, shaking his head. “How did you still marry me after that?”

Yuuri's jaw dropped, and his whole body felt like it would burst into flames. Part of him had guessed as much, but it seemed so ludicrous, he hadn't dared to hope it was true.

“We're _married_?”

“Yes.” Victor laughed once, halfway between amused and incredulous. “Although I can't imagine how, after what it must have looked like to you.”

“What _what_ looked like?”

Victor's lips twitched. “You'll find out in a few years.”

“Victor!”

Victor laughed even harder. _Jerk_ , Yuuri thought.

Despite himself, Yuuri started giggling as well. He'd told someone. He told _Victor_. Victor knew now and was okay with it. He hadn't run away screaming or accused Yuuri of lying or called in a psychiatrist. Yuuri giggled again, wiped his eyes, and let his muscles go limp against the bench.

“Thank you,” he said.

Victor smiled back at him, chin resting on one hand. “Of course.”

With his other hand, he reached toward Yuuri, then stopped and drew back. Yuuri frowned.

“Sorry,” Victor said, smile turning stiff.

“For what?”

“I'm used to being very physical with my husband.”

The word “husband” hit Yuuri like a bullet train, and his eyes went wide and his heart did somersaults.

 _I can't wait to marry him,_ part of Yuuri's brain sang.

 _You haven't even known him for a full day!_ screeched the other part. _That really **is** crazy! _

Out loud, the tiny part of his brain that was still coherent said, “I don't mind.”

Victor raised an eyebrow. “Really?”

“Um, yeah?”

“It's okay to tell me 'No.' Or 'Leave me alone,' or 'You're being weird, Victor.'”

“You're not weird! You're the coolest person I know!”

Victor's mouth started twitching again. “Okay, now I _know_ you're not my husband.”

Yuuri frowned at that. “If future-me doesn't respect you, then I will find him somehow and fight him.”

Victor brought a hand up over his mouth to cover his laugh.

“Oh my goodness,” he said, shaking his head. “I love you.”

They both froze at that. For a few seconds they stared at each other, easy slouches now tense again, with only the traffic on the bridge and the river before them to break the silence. Victor's eyes were wide, and he was the first to turn away.

“I mean,” he cleared his throat, “I don't— _you_ don't have to, ah...” He rested his elbows on his knees and his face in his hands. “Ignore me.”

Yuuri watched Victor slump, a posture Yuuri had taken many times after failed exams and disastrous competitions. Yuuri bit his lip. Victor Nikiforov should never, ever look like that.

Yuuri took a breath, leaned forward, and placed his hand on Victor's shoulder.

“Hey. It's alright.”

Victor glanced at Yuuri from the corner of his eye. Yuuri gulped. He couldn't sustain the eye contact, but he kept his hand where it was.

Victor frowned. “No. It's not. You're eleven years younger than me. I already gave you a panic attack, and I don't want to upset you or make you uncomfortable again.”

Yuuri's eyes darted up at that, and his mouth formed a thin line.

“Victor. My feelings are my responsibility, not yours. It's not your job to walk on eggshells around me.”

“Well, no. But I also don't want to hurt you, or pressure you into anything.”

“Look, I'll _tell_ you if I'm not happy, okay?”

“ _Please_.”

The intensity in Victor's voice made Yuuri startle. Victor straightened up a little. He brought a hand up to his chin, and looked Yuuri up and down, frowning.

“Right. What do we do now?”

Yuuri shifted. “Erm, what do you want to do?”

“I mean, you've time-traveled before, right? You probably know how to get back.”

“Oh! Right.” He fidgeted and looked away. “Normally I go back as soon as I take another shower. But for some reason, it didn't work this morning.”

Victor tilted his head. “Anything different about that time?”

Yuuri flipped his palms up helplessly. “No idea. I did everything the usual way.”

He set his hands back down and clenched them around the iron bars of the bench. He breathed, in and out. Around him, St. Petersburg was bright and cool, the people and cars passing by as if it were any other day. He felt light-headed from how mundane it all was. Yuuri had always thought a big revelation like time travel would warrant a more dramatic setting.

“Yuuri?”

Beside him, Victor was smiling, though it didn't reach his eyes.

“Yeah?”

“We'll figure it out.” He stood, and offered Yuuri a hand up. “Let's go home. We can investigate what happened after lunch.”

Yuuri took his hand. “Alright.”

Victor was about to pull away, but Yuuri held on. Victor looked down at their linked hands, eyes wide, then back up at Yuuri. Yuuri reddened, but didn't let go.

He tugged Victor's hand. “Come on.”

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Victor beaming.


	9. Investigation

“Here we are. The scene of the crime!”

It wasn't a crime scene, exactly. Just a bathroom. The epithet still made Yuuri chuckle. At last, someone else was scrutinizing the shower curtain and the soap dish as warily as he did.

Also, when Victor leaned over the side of his bathtub, Yuuri got to check out his butt.

“Why showers, of all things?” Victor mused, frowning at the faucet as if it had personally offended him. “I've heard of portals, spaceships and even cars traveling through time, but a shower seems rather...”

“Pathetic,” Yuuri finished.

“It's not pathetic, it's unique.”

Yuuri sighed, sitting down beside him. “No, it's pretty pathetic. There's no flashing lights or sound effects. Just me rinsing off, pulling back the curtain, and whoops, there's your bathroom instead of my hotel room.”

“What if you took a bath instead, and left the curtain on the side? Or used a shower with a glass door instead of a curtain? Or a sponge bath?”

“Then I'd get treated to a migraine, dizzy spell _and_ time travel. As soon as my head stopped feeling like fifteen kinds of murder, I'd look up and see the same thing had happened.”

Victor winced, poking at the shower drain. “Ouch. I was hoping you might be able to avoid it.”

Yuuri plucked at his shirt. “I _thought_ I could avoid it. It only happened with the private shower at my family's onsen, never with the shared ones. An onsen is like a bath house, by the way.”

“Oh, I know,” said Victor. “I have a lot of _very_ nice memories there.”

Yuuri coughed and looked away. He did not need those mental images right now. Maybe later. When he was alone. Yes, definitely later.

“Anyway,” he said, “It only happened with the one shower, so I thought it was _that_ shower with the time-travel problem. But I was in Sapporo yesterday—from my perspective, I mean—and that shower took me here. So, I don't know.”

He exhaled, leaned against the side of the tub, and tilted his head back. Explaining it out loud felt strange. Describing the problem to someone else made it feel more like a real thing, instead of Yuuri's mind playing tricks on him. Saying it out loud and being _believed_ was downright bizarre.

Victor set the soap back in its dish. He sat back on his knees, and tapped his chin.

“Does it happen every time you shower?”

Yuuri blinked against the bright ceiling lights. “You weren't kidding when you said you had questions.”

“I have _all_ the questions. Wouldn't want to accidentally break time, you know.”

“I'm more worried about time breaking _me_.”

Victor opened his mouth, then closed it again, and looked down at his hands. Yuuri fidgeted with the hem of his shirt. Perhaps he shouldn't have said that so casually.

“But anyway,” he said, “it only happens once a month or so. I've never found a pattern for what causes it.”

Victor stood up and examined the shower curtain, still not looking at Yuuri. “What about paradoxes?”

“What about them?”

“You know,” Victor said. The rings clinked along the shower rod. “Things like shooting your own grandfather when he was a baby, thus preventing your own birth. Or giving him an object that becomes a family heirloom, and then you inherit it and give it to him, so there's no real place the object came from.”

Yuuri drew his head back, watching Victor upside-down, a small frown on his face.

“You're weirdly familiar with time travel.”

Victor smiled. “I read a lot of science fiction when I was younger. Especially Lukyanenko.”

Yuuri hummed, thinking back to the books all over the apartment. “I never took you for the bookworm type.”

Victor's hand stilled on the shower rod. He looked down at Yuuri with a raised eyebrow.

Yuuri's eyes widened, and he waved his hands. “I don't mean that in a bad way! You're definitely smart and well-read!” He pressed a palm to his face. “I just meant. Um. I read a lot, but it's because I'm an introvert, and books are easier than people. But you're more confident, more popular. It's easy for you to make friends.”

God, how was Yuuri so bad at this? He sounded horribly petty, _and_ like a social reject.

Victor snorted. “You'd think so, wouldn't you?”

Something in his tone sounded a little off. Yuuri peeked up at him between his fingers.

“Wasn't it?”

“We were talking about paradoxes,” Victor said. “Any grandfathers at risk here?”

Yuuri frowned. “What? No, that can't happen. I only ever travel to the future, and then return to my own time.”

Victor leaned against the wall, mulling that over. Yuuri studied him, thinking back to the posters at the rink.

“What if,” Victor said, “you got an exam result in the future, and used your knowledge of the results to answer differently when you took the exam in the past?”

“Then the future would change.” Yuuri shrugged one shoulder. “Hey, Victor? You took gold at the Olympics twice, and won Worlds five times, right?”

Victor's brows knit together. “What does that have to do with anything?”

“People should be tripping all over themselves to know you.”

“That's good for making fans,” Victor said, easing back down to Yuuri's level. “Not so good for making friends with your competitors.”

...Oh.

“That sounds...lonely.”

Victor waved his concern away with a big smile. “It was fine. I had Makkachin. Oh!” His eyes lit up. “Could you cheat the lottery system?”

Yuuri could have gotten whiplash from how fast the subject turned around.

“Tried it once. The numbers changed. I gave up trying to mess with time after that, but weird stuff still happens sometimes.”

At that, Victor raised an eyebrow. “Such as?”

Yuuri picked at the shower curtain.

“Well...I couldn't make any friends at school, because they thought I was being rude when I didn't know what was going on. I've won _and_ lost the same competition. One time I saw my Mom die during a jump, then spent the next six months expecting to lose her any second.”

It hurt to recount, but these were old wounds, and Yuuri kept his voice flat. There was no point in making a big deal of them. Any time he'd tried, other people accused him of lying.

“Also,” he said, “I saw my friend's dog get hit by a car, and tried to warn her when I went back, but no one listened to me and the dog still died.”

He heard a gasp and glanced up. To his surprise, Victor was leaning forward, hand clutched over his heart, face grey with horror.

“Yuuri, that's _awful._ I am so, so sorry that happened to you.”

Yuuri leaned back, blinking at the sincerity in those words, at the world tilting sideways because someone else cared.

He gave Victor a wan smile. “Sorry you got caught in the middle of this. I'm sure older, cooler me will have lots to cringe about with you once I've dealt with this mess.”

“You shouldn't have to deal with this. Not alone.”

A frisson went down Yuuri's spine. A tightness in his chest softened, one that he hadn't known he carried. Perhaps the world had been sideways all along, and was only now tilting back into place.

His gaze drifted up to the counter. Beyond the edge, his older self's ring lay, innocuous and accusing all at once. He had overlooked it last night. The possibility that someone might have _liked_ Yuuri enough to marry him hadn't even registered. Then meeting Victor had dashed all memory of the ring from his thoughts.

Yuuri shuddered. Normal people only had to worry about their partners finding embarrassing baby pictures and teenage yearbook photos of them. Yuuri still was a teenager, but already felt embarrassed. It wouldn't shock him if Victor broke up with older-Yuuri because of this.

“Speaking of older-Yuuri,” Victor said, “if you're here, is he in 2011?”

Yuuri dropped his gaze back down, and wrapped his arms around his knees. Victor watched him curl in on himself, then shifted so they were sitting side by side. The tightness inside of Yuuri uncoiled a little further.

“If it's like my previous jumps, then older-me isn't really anywhere. When I'm on the older-me side of a time jump, there's no warning that time travel happened at all, except that when I leave the shower people have changed their clothes, and calendars have moved forward.”

He winced. “And everyone around asks me why I was acting weird for a while.”

Victor lowered his gaze as well. His fingers traced circles in the wood grain floor.

“That sounds confusing for everyone involved.”

“Gee, you _think_?”

The tightness unfurled completely, anxiety melting away for the first time in years, and for once Yuuri's hands shook for a different reason.

“When I was a kid, I didn't even realize it was time travel! I thought I just had these really realistic dreams. I'd go through whole days and then snap back and everyone acted like nothing happened. And I thought I had memory problems, because days would go by without me noticing.”

Beside him, Victor covered his mouth with one hand. “Didn't anyone else notice?”

“Of course they noticed. Not that they ever _believed_ me. And I couldn't prove it, because the timeline changes. So even though I _visit_ the future I can't predict that it will happen!”

He glowered at the far wall, and let his fist fall to the floor. He stewed in his feelings, and Victor, thankfully, said nothing. Yuuri's shoulders drooped. He had been extremely lucky that Victor had been different. At least he could look forward to marrying a man who took him seriously.

Could he, though?

Yuuri's head shot up. Hadn't he said that the future could change? Meaning that all of _this_ could change? Meaning that Yuuri might never marry Victor at all, might never win all those competitions, might fade into obscurity like the loser he'd always been?

Victor raised a hand, then set it back down. “Yuuri?”

Yuuri shut his eyes. “I'm fine. Give me a second.”

Give him a second. Ha. As if time travel had ever been generous. But Victor was, and he kept quiet for a while before speaking again.

“Forgive me if this is awkward, but...”

Yuuri tensed up.

“...Do you want a hug? No, wait, nevermind. Can I get you something?”

Yuuri glanced over, and Victor was looking away, running his fingers through his hair.

“Sorry,” Victor said. “I'm not sure what to do or what you need right now. I'm not good at feelings.”

Yuuri lifted his head up and stared at him, shoving aside worry for incredulity. After being Yuuri's rock through multiple panic attacks, how could Victor be nervous now? He was doing fine. But then, that was before he'd realized Yuuri was a teenager, and before he had promised not to touch Yuuri anymore.

Yuuri cleared his throat, not making eye contact.

“I think I'd like to rest, honestly. I didn't get much sleep last night.”

Victor visibly relaxed at that. “Alright.”

It wasn't entirely an excuse. But it was, a little. And it was enough for Yuuri to have a break to think.

Victor allowed Yuuri to stretch out on his bed, while Victor pulled a battered copy of _A_ _Swiftly Tilting Planet_ off the bookshelf and sat on the other side. Makkachin plopped down between them, fur tickling Yuuri's knees.

Yuuri closed his eyes. His hand curled in Makkachin's fur. Around him, the room was quiet, save for Victor occasionally turning a page, or the soft scratch of a pen. Yuuri thought back through their conversation, mentally recalibrating.

“ _That sounds lonely.”_

“ _It was fine.”_

Yuuri's eyes jerked open.

“Victor?”

The pen stopped. “Hmm?”

“Are you not competing anymore?”

“Nope.”

Yuuri shot up and gaped at him. “Why?”

“I'm twenty-nine.”

“Plushenko retired when he was thirty-one!”

Victor stared back at him blankly. “I'm not Plushenko.”

Yuuri slumped onto his elbows, absently pushing Makkachin away when she licked his face. He shouldn't be surprised. Twenty-nine was long past most figure skaters' retirement age. But this was _Victor Nikiforov_. Victor, who'd been competing for as long as Yuuri could remember. Who inspired Yuuri to keep going, no matter how bad his anxiety got. Whom Yuuri had vowed to compete _against_ , at least once in his life.

His shock must have shown on his face, because Victor's gaze softened, and he reached toward Yuuri. Then he stopped himself, and pulled back.

“I still skate,” he said. “But for myself, now. Not for medals. And I skate with future-you all the time.”

Yuuri lay face down on the bed, head on his elbow. As petty as it was, he was _not_ future-Yuuri, and that did not comfort him. And he'd appreciate it if Victor stopped holding back and just hugged him already.

“Really, it's alright,” Victor said. “You know I'm hosting ice shows. And now that I'm not a threat, the other skaters are a lot friendlier.”

Yuuri's fingers tightened around the pillowcase. He thought back to himself eating lunch alone at school, of turning to Vicchan for companionship instead of his classmates. That was only to be expected for someone like him, but for Victor?

“You shouldn't have had to retire, just so people would be nice to you. It's not fair to—”

“I didn't _have_ to do anything.”

Yuuri shut his mouth.

“A million people told me not to quit,” Victor said. “Only one man told me to do what made me happy. So I took his advice and married him.”

Yuuri's eyes widened, and a hot flush spread up his cheeks. His spine tingled, a strange flutter of warmth and disbelief, and he had to break eye contact before he burst into flames.

So Yuuri quashed his disappointment, and admitted, “He was right.”

From the corner of his eye, he saw Victor smile.

“Get some sleep,” Victor said. “I'll skim my library and see if I can find any ideas that could help you. We'll get you back to your own time.”

Yuuri hummed, and stared up at the ceiling. His heart didn't leap at that prospect like it had for previous jumps. This wasn't his time period, but...it was a time where Victor was happy. If Yuuri went back to his own era, that could change.

What would happen then? Would the timeline split into two, this reality and Yuuri's reality? Or would this future simply vanish? Would _Victor_ vanish?

He squeezed his eyes shut, and turned away so Victor wouldn't notice. Behind him, Victor scribbled in his book, pages rustling as the minutes ticked by.

 


	10. Link

Yuuri woke to a poodle on his chest and half a conversation drifting in from the kitchen. Victor was speaking to someone in Russian. A few seconds of silence, then Victor's laugh made warmth pool in Yuuri's stomach. He sat up, yawned, and scratched Makkachin. That nap had been an excellent idea.

Victor spoke again, a smile audible in his voice.

Yuuri's stomach twisted. Was he happier without Yuuri present? Maybe he was pretending to like him. What if he was laughing at Yuuri behind his back right now?

Yuuri told his anxiety to shut up. It polka-danced up and down his nerves as he wandered into the living room. Victor glanced up, phone at his ear, and mouthed a word Yuuri couldn't lip-read.

Yuuri shook his head. “Huh?”

“One moment,” Victor said. He covered the phone with his hand. “It's Yurio.”

“The boy who hates everyone?”

Victor's eyebrows rose at that. After a second, he chuckled and shook his head.

“He's a seventeen year old trying to be tough. Deep down, he's really a good kid.”

Yuuri gave him a skeptical look. A good kid? “ _I'm_ eighteen.”

“Right,” Victor said, smile turning brittle. “Pardon me. A good guy.”

Yurio's tinny, tiny voice seemed to be saying otherwise through Victor's phone speaker, at least if Yuuri heard his tone correctly. Victor brought the phone back up to his ear.

Yuuri poked around the living room while Victor chatted. He looked for something to distract himself from the problem of how to get back to his own time period. On the window sill, he now saw that the houseplants he had passed over last night were bigger versions of the baby succulents he kept at home. The picture frames held not just art, but photos of Yuuri and Victor with Yuuri's family.

Yuuri's heart twinged. Whether in warmth or pain, he couldn't tell.

The books were now slanting in their shelves. Victor had stacked up Lukyanenko and Heinlein's novels about time travel on the end table. Yuuri turned away from them. He did not need a reminder of how much trouble he was causing Victor by being here.

Victor covered the phone again and called him over. “Yurio wants to talk to you. Is that okay?”

Yuuri bit his lip. “Sure, I guess?”

“Don't worry,” Victor whispered, handing the phone over. “He just wants to check that you're alright.”

Yuuri raised an eyebrow at that, but brought the phone to his ear.

“Hello?”

“Katsudon.” Yurio's voice was like ice. “What the fuck did I see today?”

Yuuri tilted his head, voice dull. “I'm fine, thanks, and how are you?”

Yurio grunted at that. Yuuri could almost hear his eyes roll.

“Whatever. But seriously, what the fuck.”

Yuuri glanced around, searching a reply that wouldn't sound too suspicious. It needed to be vague, but not too vague. On the couch, Victor was sorting through his books. He flipped through the pages, brows creased. Perhaps something useful was in there after all.

Yuuri leaned against the counter. “I didn't get much sleep last night.”

Yurio muttered something in Russian. “Don't tell me you were playing _Smash Bros_ again.”

Yuuri's eyes lit up. _Smash Bros_? His eyes darted to the videogame console by the television set, heart swelling in his chest.

Better graphics. Better audio. More characters, probably. None of which would be available for years in Yuuri's home time.

“Oh, you know me,” he said, trying to contain the smile in his voice. He walked back to Victor's room. “Gotta keep up my gaming skills somehow.”

There, that should be vague enough.

Yurio scoffed. “You know I'll kick your ass again. I don't know why you insist on maining Link.”

Yuuri squatted down by the bookshelf that held his future self's videogame collection. He pulled _Super Smash Bros_ off the shelf, eyes drinking in the sweet, sweet box art. He was right: several new characters had been added, and they all looked fantastic.

“Because Link is the best, obviously.”

“He's barely even mid-tier.”

Yuuri huffed, taking the game case back to the living room. Character tiers, the idea that some characters were inherently stronger than others, had never sat well with him.

“Skills are more important than tiers,” he said. “If you have to use a high-tier character to win, it means you're not skilled enough.”

“Tch. Are you calling me unskilled?”

“What do you think?”

“Fuck it, I'm coming over. Enjoy your day while you still can.”

The line went dead, and Yuuri smiled at the phone. That was almost too easy.

Victor looked up from his books. “That sounded fun.”

Yuuri coughed, and rubbed the back of his neck.

“I might have provoked him into coming over to play _Super Smash Bros_. Is that okay?”

Victor's book drooped in his hands. “You're seven years in the future and you want to play videogames?”

“Yes!” Yuuri held up the box. “It has new characters on the cover. I won't be able to play this again for years. I've got to make the most of it while I can!”

Victor stared at him and said nothing. Yuuri felt himself deflating, and tightened his fingers on the box.

“I've been worried about the time travel mess all day. It'd be nice to think about something fun for a while. You can join us if you want.” He cleared his throat. “Sorry, I should have asked your permission first. It's your home, after all. I could tell Yurio no when he gets here.”

There was a pause. Then, Victor chuckled.

“And miss an opportunity to mess with him? Certainly not.”

Yuuri lifted his head, eyes round and bright, and his inner fanboy did somersaults.

A few minutes later, they had a scowl in the shape of a teenager at their door.

“Hello, Yurio!” Victor said.

Yurio waved, then stalked past Victor and leaned up to Yuuri's face.

“You wimped out of training today,” Yurio snarled. “And I'm gonna kick your ass for it!”

All Yuuri could think was, _He's standing on his tip-toes,_ and he tried not to laugh. He closed his eyes, already mentally running through all his strategies from previous versions of the game. When he opened them, they were as hard as steel.

He fixed Yurio with an even gaze. “You're on.”

Ten minutes later, they were seated in the living room. Or rather, Yuuri was seated on the couch, Yurio sprawled across the rest of the couch and the armrest, and Victor leaned forward over the back of the couch with his arms crossed. Yuuri sent Victor a questioning look. Apparently, this was normal for them.

The disc loaded, the title music played, and Yuuri forgot his concerns about fair seating and couch space. He clicked through to the character select screen, and grinned. The roster was _huge_.

Each person had to pick a character to play. Yuuri chose Link, the bow and sword-wielding hero from _The Legend of Zelda._ Link was considered one of the weakest fighters in the game's previous edition. But he was Yuuri's favorite. He had courage and determination that Yuuri had always longed for in his own life.

Also, how else would Yuuri get to throw boomerangs at people?

Victor went with Jigglypuff. Jigglypuff looked like a round, pink marshmallow with cat ears. It appeared sweet and adorable, but had several difficult techniques experts could use to slaughter their competition. Yuuri glanced at Victor from the corner of his eye. Victor was either bad at fighting games, or _very_ good. Yuuri's inner fanboy was jumping up and down in his seat.

Yurio wrinkled his nose. “Jigglypuff is literally the worst character in the game.”

Victor shrugged. “Then it shouldn't be hard for you to win, right?”

Yurio squinted at him, then huffed and leaned toward the screen.

“Whatever.”

Yurio picked Sonic the Hedgehog, a cocky, sharp-tongued speedster who deep down had a heart of gold. He was also considered a tougher opponent in the _Smash Bros_ franchise than Link or Jigglypuff.

Yuuri pushed his glasses up and leaned forward when the battle started. The graphics and controls were better than the game he had seven years ago, and Link's moves hadn't changed much. But he found subtle differences in the gameplay. Some moves had a shorter range than he remembered, causing him to miss his opponents. Other times, he dashed too quickly, or dropped from a platform when he only meant to crouch.

Yurio took advantage of this. He racked up damage points on Link and sent him flying. But to Yuuri's pleasant surprise, although Link took hits, he was also better now at _recovering_ from those punches and getting back into the fight. The battles hadn't gotten any easier, but _he_ had gotten better.

 _You and me both, I hope_.

As for Victor...

Yeah, he was terrible at this.

All Yuuri's preteen daydreams of squaring off against his idol in pixel combat were shattered. He had thought competitive spirit in skating would carry over into gaming. It certainly did for Yuuri. But no, Victor thought it was funnier to make Jigglypuff vogue for the camera. Yuuri may or may not have targeted him so they could watch that hateful pink marshmallow hurtle off into the sky, with a sad, high-pitched “Jiggleeeee!”

Okay, yeah, Yuuri totally did that.

But Victor laughed at it, too. So there.

Yurio won the match with a shout and pumped his fists in the air. Yuuri clapped once. Victor tried ruffling Yurio's hair, only to pull back when Yurio hissed at him.

“Always so dramatic,” said Victor.

Yurio glowered up at him. “Says the guy who set his husband's tie on fire.”

Yuuri looked back and forth between them with a raised eyebrow. What was this about?

Victor shrugged. “Yuuri let me.” He leaned towards Yuuri and whispered, “Long story.”

“It _was_ pretty butt-ugly,” Yurio granted.

He flicked back to the character select screen and started another match. He hunched forward, heedless of Victor making bunny-ears with his fingers behind Yurio's head. Yuuri's lip started twitching, and he fought not to give the joke away.

It reminded him of himself and his older sister, Mari. She claimed it was the god-given right of older siblings to annoy the younger ones. Yuuri was starting to see the appeal.

Victor grinned. “Yurio, you may have won the last game. But can your character break-dance?”

Yurio's eye twitched. “I will fucking cut you, Victor.”

“ _Someone's_ still bitter about the dance-off.”

On screen, Sonic hurled Jigglypuff halfway across the battlefield.

“Shut up,” Yurio said, mashing buttons. “Just wait till I take my classes on it. I _will_ have my revenge.”

Yuuri glanced aside at him. “Breakdancing?”

Yurio rolled his eyes. Sonic shielded to absorb Link's arrows.

“Don't play innocent, Mr. Sixteen-Flutes-of-Champagne. I still get nightmares about that night.”

“Sorry?”

“It's a joke, Katsudon.”

Yuuri blinked at him, but Yurio's eyes were fixed on the screen. Sonic knocked Link off a ledge. Yuuri jerked and turned back to the television.

Okay then. Older-Yuuri must have had an interesting life. As if winning a World Championship, getting stopped by fans on the street and marrying Victor Nikiforov weren't interesting enough. Honestly, if Yuuri had to be stuck in another time period, this wasn't a bad place to be.

“I'm going to let Makkachin out,” said Victor, setting down his controller.

“Hey!” Yurio snapped. “Don't throw the match!”

Victor stood up and tapped Yurio's hair, and Yurio flailed a hand upward and said something that was probably offensive in Russian. Victor laughed and walked out with Makkachin.

Once Victor had left the room, Yurio turned Sonic around and started whaling on the now-helpless Jigglypuff. Yuuri was about to scold him for the cheap shot, but Yurio spoke first.

“Are you two fighting?”

Yuuri's hands slipped on the controller, causing Link to misfire an attack.

He kept his voice level. “Why do you say that?”

“Normally, you're hanging off each other and being gross.”

Sonic blasted Jigglypuff off the side of the stage. Yurio's scowl didn't change. He sent Sonic charging after Link.

Yuuri wiped his hands on his pants, then re-gripped his controller and fired arrows at Sonic from a distance. That repelled the hedgehog long enough for Yuuri to catch his breath. He could hardly focus on the battle when he also had to watch out for verbal and social pitfalls.

If Yurio thought Yuuri wasn't being affectionate, how much did older-Yuuri and Victor touch each other, anyway? Yuuri's face flushed at that, and his heart fluttered.

“It's nothing,” he said. “We're fine.”

Yurio grunted. “If you say so.”

After the first two matches, Yuuri alternated between all of the characters who weren't in previous versions of the game. After all, if he managed to get back to his own year, he wouldn't get to do this for ages. It caused him to lose almost every fight to Sonic. But who cared?

Maybe being stuck here wasn't all that bad.

The tenth time they returned to the character select screen, Yurio didn't pick a character. He leaned back on the couch and chewed his lip.

“So,” he said, “I got accepted to university.”

Yuuri nearly dropped his controller. “That's fantastic! Where is it located?”

“Here. Duh.” He scowled and looped his cursor around the screen. “I can't stand the coaches in Moscow.”

Yuuri tilted his head. “You don't sound happy about it.”

Yurio huffed.

“I didn't get the scholarship I wanted. And Grandpa's not exactly rich.”

Yuuri sucked in a breath. His parents had spent many nights poring over bills in low voices, when Yuuri was supposed to be asleep. Their smiles every morning and constant reassurances only worsened the cold weight in his stomach.

“So,” he said, “you're worried about the money?”

Yurio's shoulders tensed up, and he pulled his hoodie over his eyes.

“I'm not worried. I won the fucking GPF, asshole. Phichit wishes he had as many sponsors as me.”

“So.” Yuuri knit his brows. “What's the problem?”

“The problem is that Grandpa lives in Moscow. And he's getting old.”

Yuuri's eyes widened. He nodded. His own parents were both healthy, and they had Mari. But their profits on the onsen were slim. If one of them got sick, and Yuuri wasn't around to pick up the slack, then he didn't know what would happen.

He swallowed. “That sounds really hard.”

“Yeah, it's fucking hard,” Yurio said. “What happens if he has a stroke and I'm on the other side of the country? What if he gets medical bills that we can't afford because I kept competing and went to university here?”

Yuuri winced, leaning away from him. Pointing out the contradiction in Yurio's words would probably make Yurio yell at him again.

Yurio tsk'd, set his character as Sonic again, and clicked through to the next stage and battle at random. Their characters materialized in Hyrule Temple, at opposite ends of one of the biggest battlefields in the game.

They both groaned. It would take ages for their characters to reach each other. Yuuri pressed buttons to see Pac-Man's moves, but didn't absorb them. The match didn't matter to him now.

“What do you think your Grandpa would want you to do?”

Yurio snorted, and the corner of his lip quirked up.

“He's stoic. He could be bleeding out in the damn gutter and still say, follow your heart, Yurochka, don't worry about me.”

His voice wavered, and he mashed buttons on the controller, making Sonic dart back and forth.

Yuuri nodded. “That sounds like my parents. They won't even let me see the receipts for skating expenses.”

Sonic slammed into Pac-Man. The hedgehog launched into a flurry of kicks.

“Cut the crap, Katsudon. You and Victor have a shit-ton of money.”

Yuuri hunched his shoulders. He resisted the urge to smack himself. Of course future-Yuuri, married and internationally successful, wouldn't rely on his parents' funds anymore.

They played the rest of the match out. Sonic kicked Pac-Man's round yellow butt several times, but only because Yuuri wasn't as familiar with the controls for this version of the game. Sonic punted Pac-Man off a cliff. He hurled Pac-Man into the sky. The match ended when Yuuri pressed the wrong button and accidentally threw _himself_ off the cliff.

Yep, definitely the controls.

Yurio didn't smile when the screen congratulated him. “Well?”

“Good game,” Yuuri said. “Want to go again?”

Yurio's scowl deepened. “I mean, what do you think I should do?”

That gave Yuuri pause. He fidgeted the joystick on his controller, and bit his lip. He would have to mind his words.

“What do you think you should do?” he tried.

Yurio slammed his controller down on the floor.

“I don't know! Why the hell would I bring it up if I knew what to do?”

Okay, yeah, good point.

Yuuri fidgeted with his buttons. “If you stayed here, you'd be able to skate and go to college at the same time.”

“Duh,” Yurio said, sprawling back on the couch. “If someone like you can do it, of course I can.”

Yuuri jerked his chin up at that. Had future-Yuuri had done both? How? Yuuri had only been accepted to Japanese colleges, and Celestino was in Detroit.

“But then, you've got a sister,” Yurio added, shuddering, “who has crap taste in celebrities. But anyway. You knew she'd be there for your parents, while I'm all that my Grandpa has. I can't just leave him, you know?”

“Right.”

The game returned to the character select screen. Vivid graphics and pumped-up battle music played over a massive cast of fighters. Dozens of choices. Neither player moved.

Yuuri asked, “What would you regret later if you didn't do it?”

“Not being able to pay for Grandpa's care if something bad happened.”

Yuuri swallowed. “Fair.”

“But if I left St. Petersburg,” Yurio continued, “I'd have to get some crappy Moscow coach, and I couldn't visit Yakov or Lilia. I couldn't kick your ass at games anymore.” He glanced over his shoulder. “And Victor's annoying, but he knows his shit. Which reminds me.”

Yurio leaned over so that his glare was right in Yuuri's face.

“You better fix whatever's happening between you two. I've got an ice show routine to perfect, and I don't need your soap opera mucking it up.”

Yuuri held up his hands and gave him a tight smile. “Will do.”

Yurio sat back in his seat, and Yuuri let out a breath. Under Yurio's harsh tone ran a tiny thread of concern. Part of Yuuri felt flattered at that, but the bigger part cringed at another person noticing his unusual behavior. He had barely been able to handle Victor.

Speaking of Victor, why wasn't he back yet? Dogs didn't take that long to do their business.

Wait. Speaking of Victor...

Yuuri's face lit up. “What about asking Victor for help?”

Yurio scrunched up his nose. “I don't want charity, thanks.”

“That's not what I meant. You should ask Victor for information.”

“What do you mean?”

“He wasn't born rich. And you know how it's almost impossible to make a profit in this sport, even if you're the best. But somehow Victor's made enough to finance his own ice shows?” Yuuri shook his head. “He must be able to squeeze rubles from a stone. Ask him how.”

Yurio crossed his arms and frowned at the floor.

“As long as I don't have to put on an _act_ like he does,” he muttered.

Yuuri frowned. “What do you mean?”

Yurio raised an eyebrow. “You know what I mean. I'm gonna stick to being _me_ , and not what other people think I should be.”

“That's probably wise,” Yuuri said.

“If you can have it both ways, I'm sure _I_ can.” Yurio snorted. “Yeah, he'll probably know how to do something like this. I'll talk to him, but not today.”

He cast another pointed look at Yuuri.

Yuuri raised his shoulders. “What?”

Yurio huffed and rolled his eyes. He picked up his things and turned the console off.

“You're right. There has to be another way. Good game.”

“Good game,” Yuuri replied as he saw Yurio out.

It _was_ a good game. More fun than the previous edition, in Yuuri's opinion. New Link was better than Old Link in every way, and Yuuri saw no reason to go back.

He paused, game controllers in his hands.

Older-Yuuri's life was better than younger-Yuuri's life. He had friends here. He had fans. He was a world champion, and married to the man of his dreams. Older-Yuuri didn't have to worry about money or figuring out his future. But older-Yuuri wasn't here. _This_ Yuuri was.

If Yuuri stayed here, and lived this life, would it be so bad?

And besides, if he stayed here, he wouldn't have to worry about this version of the future disappearing. He wouldn't have to say goodbye.

Yuuri put away the controllers and turned the television off. The game disk fit snugly into its box, the place where it was meant to be. He cracked open the door to Victor's room.

Victor was crying.


	11. Raspberry Jam

Victor sat with his back against the bed frame and his arms around Makkachin. He held her tight, face buried in her grey curls, and she leaned against him in turn. His shoulders slumped and his breath hitched. Yuuri didn't need to see Victor's face to know what that sound meant.

He tip-toed back out the doorway, and closed the door as quietly as he could behind him. He fell back against the wall and stared at the floor. Victor was upset, and where had Yuuri been? Goofing around with a videogame. He was an _idiot_. 

But wallowing in self-loathing wasn't going to help anything. Victor wouldn't want Yuuri to wallow, anyway. So Yuuri, idiotic though he was, would do his best.

He pushed off the wall, walked to the kitchen and set the kettle to boil. In the cabinet, he found a well-curated selection of teas, herbal teas and coffee blends, even his favorite _genmaicha_ leaves. Victor and future-Yuuri must have had them imported. His chest warmed at that thought.

Yuuri couldn't recall which one Victor had chosen last night. He studied the teas that were most depleted, and picked one that he knew _he_ didn't like. Victor must have bought it for himself. He placed the leaves and infuser in a mug, took the kettle off its coil, and let the water cool slightly before pouring it over the leaves.

Tea steeping at his side, Yuuri drew a deep breath, lifted his gaze heavenward, and found _it_ on the edge of the top shelf. He pulled a face, reached up, and grabbed _it_. He unscrewed the lid, and the aroma was unmistakeable.

Yuuri glared down at _it_. “I bet you think this is funny.”

The raspberry jam did not reply.

With a big sigh and a small spoon, he scooped out a dollop, and held it over the mug. He removed the infuser and leaves.

“Forgive me,” he said to the tea, “for what I am about to do.”

The tea didn't answer him, either. He lowered the spoon, and stirred in the jam, feeling the judgment of his ancestors upon him. Yuuri took the mug and a saucer back to Victor's room, and knocked on the door.

He heard shuffling on the other side. “Come in!”

Victor looked much better this time, sitting up on the bed with a book on his lap and Makkachin at his feet. He wore the same odd smile from the café.

Yuuri didn't smile back. He could tell what was odd about it now. He walked around the bed, to Victor's side, and set the mug and saucer on the nightstand near Victor's elbow.

Victor glanced between Yuuri and the tea. “For me?”

“You seemed like you needed it.”

“Oh, that's alright,” Victor said, still with that damnable smile. “I'm great, but I'll never turn down something you made for me!”

He closed the book and took the mug in both hands. He breathed in the scent of it. Yuuri stood there for a moment, studying him, arms folded behind his back. Makkachin wagged her tail once, and when Victor didn't lean over to pet her, tried to crawl into his lap. Victor raised his shoulders to keep the tea from spilling.

He looked up over the rim of his mug at Yuuri. “Something wrong?”

“Your book is upside down.”

Victor's gaze dropped down to it.

“Ah. So it is.”

Yuuri leaned forward. He rested on hand on his thigh, and with the other, slowly reached out to Victor's face.

Victor's eyebrows rose, and he sucked in a breath. Yuuri brushed the fringe from Victor's eyes.

“Yuuri?”

“Your eyes are red.”

Victor blinked, smile finally dimming. Yuuri walked back around the bed, to his side, and sat down beside Victor.

“I'm alright,” Victor said.

“No, you're not.”

Victor's shoulders tensed at that, and he turned to Yuuri to reply. Yuuri met his gaze evenly. After a second, Victor shut his mouth. He set the book aside, held the mug up to his face, and sighed.

The room around them was silent, save for the low rumble of traffic outside and the hum of the air conditioner. In the west, the Sun was drifting downward again. The walls, once so sleek and modern and intimidating, now looked warm and clean. The bookshelves were in disarray from Yuuri sorting through videogames and Victor pulling out books. Makkachin curled up between them.

If not for the awkwardness hanging over them, the room would have felt downright homey.

After a few sips, Victor whispered, “Thank you.”

“Did I make it right?”

“It's delicious.”

Yuuri scrunched up his nose. “Somehow, I doubt that.”

Victor ducked his head, and his lips twitched. He held out the mug.

“Here, you try it. How is it?”

Yuuri leaned away from the mug, eyeing it like a bear trap. Victor's lips twitched up a little more. Just as Yuuri hoped. He heaved a sigh, rolled his eyes, and reached over Makkachin to take the cup.

He held his breath and swallowed a mouthful.

Yuuri handed back the mug. “It's...nice.”

Victor nudged him. “ _Yuuri_.”

“Okay, it tastes like Willy Wonka's embalming fluid.”

Victor smiled at that. An _actual_ smile! Yuuri mentally high-fived himself. He rubbed Makkachin's back, and she rolled over for a tummy rub.

“What were you sad about?”

Victor shook his head, and took another sip of his tea.

“It's nothing, really.”

“Is it about me?”

“It's not your fault. And I don't want you blaming yourself or feeling bad.”

Yuuri raised an eyebrow. “That's not a no.”

Victor looked down at his mug. He circled a finger around the rim. The Sun dipped a little lower in the sky.

“Do you remember,” Victor said, “when Yurio was here, and I teased him about breakdancing?”

Yuuri nodded. “He threw a fit.”

“That really happened. The breakdancing, I mean.” Victor ran a hand through his hair. “Let me start over. You, or future-you, got into a dance-off with Yurio, and you started breakdancing. We've teased him about it ever since.”

Yuuri squinted at him.

“You're kidding me. No way would I do that.”

Victor winced. “Sorry, it's funnier if you actually remember it.”

Yuuri mentally kicked himself. He hadn't meant to upset Victor again. Yuuri raised his hands.

“Okay, sure. We'll go with that. So, you left the room soon after that joke, didn't you?”

Victor took a long sip. “I did.”

“Did I say something wrong?”

“No, no. It just reminded me.”

Yuuri tilted his head. Victor looked away again, face blank.

“You're not my Yuuri, but you look like him, and sometimes my brain forgets.”

The words punched Yuuri in the gut. He drew a shaky breath, and wrapped his arms around his knees.

“I disappointed you.”

“You did nothing wrong.”

“Still, I...” He trailed off when Victor held a finger up to his lips.

“My Yuuri does this, too,” he said. “The moment something goes wrong, he worries that it's his fault. Even if it isn't. Even if he knows there's no way he could be to blame.”

Yuuri looked away. “Yeah. It's an anxiety thing.”

“As I guessed.”

Victor set his cup on the nightstand, a faint tap that echoed in the air. His hand rested on the bed, only few inches from Yuuri's. Those inches might as well have been an ocean.

How arrogant had Yuuri been, to think he could substitute for the man Victor loved?

Yuuri whispered, “Tell me about him. In Russian.”

Victor blinked at him. “But you don't speak Russian.”

“That's the point. You'll be able to say what you need to say out loud, and I'll listen, and you won't have to worry about my feelings.”

Victor's eyes widened, and his hand drifted toward his heart. He lowered his gaze, and stroked Makkachin's back.

“If you let me get started,” he said, “You might not be able to make me shut up.”

Yuuri watched Victor's hand, and with his own, he scratched Makkachin's ears.

“I don't want you to shut up.”

All this time, Yuuri had only been thinking about how he would cope with being trapped in 2018 forever. He hadn't considered what this mess must have been like for Victor. Victor had been all smiles up till now. And smiling meant he was fine, right?

The ocean had gaped between them all this time. Yuuri just hadn't seen it. Because Yuuri had been selfish, and Victor was too damn nice for his own good.

Victor spoke slowly at first, pausing to make each sentence count. Yuuri closed his eyes, listening. He could only grasp his own name and “Hasetsu.” But Victor's voice betrayed warmth, at what must have been nostalgic memories, and tightness, when he worried. Sarcasm, tiredness, affection. Little things that Yuuri had never seen in Victor's interviews, and which even now he couldn't say to Yuuri outright.

If Yuuri stayed in this time period, Victor would never see his husband again.

Yuuri cracked open one eye. He didn't need his phone's clock to know what time it was. It was time to take a shower. He groaned and shook his head.

Victor's hand stilled in Makkachin's fur. “Yuuri?”

Yuuri sat up straight. “I'm sorry, Victor.”

Victor frowned. He tilted his head.

“Why apologize? You weren't even doing anything.”

“Yes, that's the problem. I'm not doing anything.” He got up and opened Victor's closet. “I _should_ be t aking a shower and trying to get back home. So you can be with _him_ again.”

Victor froze, eyes wide as if Yuuri had struck him. “Yuuri...”

“Don't,” Yuuri cut him off. “Don't be so nice to me.”

“What?”

“I almost wish you were a jerk,” Yuuri said, grabbing a dull black shirt. “Because then it would be easy to go back. But you keep acting like you care about me, and I know it's not really _for_ me, but I keep taking advantage of it.”

“You're not taking advant—”

“You're not the jerk. I am.” He took out a pair of jeans. “I should get out of your hair and take that shower so you can have him back. I'm wasting your time.”

“Yuuri, wait!”

Victor jumped up and extended a hand, and the quiver in his voice shot straight to Yuuri's heart. Yuuri froze. He resisted the urge to look back at Victor.

“You know I have to go anyway.”

“Wait a second,” Victor said, striding past him to the sink. He returned after a moment. “Hold out your hand.”

Yuuri set the clothes on the bed. He raised his palm, and into it, Victor dropped older-Yuuri's wedding ring.

Yuuri swallowed. His hand started shaking. They both stared at the golden band, and Victor took Yuuri's hand in his. He closed Yuuri's fingers over the ring.

“Take it with you.”


	12. Promises

Yuuri's hand trembled, the ring cold under his fingers.

His voice cracked. “What?”

“When you shower,” Victor said, fixing him with his gaze, “keep the ring on. Don't take your eyes off it, even for a second. Take it with you back to Sapporo.”

Yuuri's eyes were as round as saucers. He let out a shaky breath.

“But I couldn't. It's not _mine_.”

“It's proof that this was real. Will be real. Whatever the verb is.”

“What about older-me?”

“He'll understand.”

Yuuri stared down at his fist. His knuckles clenched white around the metal. Victor brushed his fingers over the back of Yuuri's palm, then stepped back.

“I don't want you to leave without knowing what you mean to me.”

Yuuri trembled before those words. _He_ wasn't the man Victor wanted. Why did Victor keep saying things like this?

He held the ring out. “Victor, please. Don't make this harder than it needs to be.”

Victor lay his hand over his heart.

“You may not be my husband, but without you, the man I love wouldn't be who he is today. _I_ wouldn't be who I am today. The fact that I got to meet you is an honor.”

Yuuri ducked his head, cheeks flaming. “That's kind of you.”

“I mean it.”

With his vision blurring and wrist starting to shake, Yuuri let his arms drop to his sides. He stared at the wood grain between their feet.

“I find it hard to believe I could become the sort of person _you_ wanted. Assuming that even happens.”

Victor chuckled. “But it's already happened. Why worry?”

Yuuri opened his mouth, then shut it again. A tendril of guilt coiled in his stomach. Just because this was _a_ future, doesn't mean it would be _his_ future. His relationship with Victor could change as easily as the lottery numbers had.

Before now, he had never worried about what happened to the futures he saw, which didn't come to pass. He could forget about them. They looked almost identical to Yuuri's own life, after all. But now? Now there was something—someone—that Yuuri could lose.

“Yuuri, it's alright.”

Victor was smiling softly, a hand on his hip.

“We found each other before. We'll find each other again.”

A hundred reasons fluttered through Yuuri's mind for why that might not happen. A lot could go wrong in seven years. And if it did, if Yuuri stepped even an inch off the course, this version of Victor might disappear forever. Would it hurt, to be erased from existence?

Yuuri shuddered.

“Really,” Victor said, blissfully unaware, “knowing you, and knowing me, we had to have met sooner or later. We hit it off immediately, too. I'm surprised that it took as long as it did.”

Yuuri's head jerked up at that. His clenched hands drew up to his chest. If he wanted this future to come true, he needed to know how to make it happen.

“Victor? How did we get together?”

Victor's lip quirked up, and he got a faraway look in his eyes. He raised a hand to his mouth.

“We went to a banquet after a competition together, and you started pole dancing.”

Yuuri gaped at him. Victor sighed, eyes twinkling. On the bed, Makkachin sniffed at the empty tea mug.

“No, really, what happened?”

Victor's smile widened. “It was marvelous.”

“I don't believe you.”

“There was a lot of alcohol involved.”

Yuuri sputtered. “I don't even drink!”

“Well, future-you has the alcohol tolerance of a god,” Victor said, tapping his cheek. “Maybe you should start?”

Yuuri tilted his head and squinted. That seemed like incredibly bad advice.

Victor frowned. “Drink responsibly, though. I don't want you or anyone else to get hurt.” His eyes widened. “But not too responsibly, since—wait, is it even legal for you to drink in Japan?”

It was not legal. They looked at each other for a long moment. Yuuri sighed, and rubbed the ring in his hand.

“I'm going to pretend the last fifteen seconds didn't happen.”

Victor coughed. “That's probably wise.”

Yuuri picked up the shirt and pants again, and held them together with the ring.

“Please tell me you were joking about the pole dancing?”

Victor's face lit up again. “I have pictures! In fact, I have a slideshow.”

Oh dear god. This future could never come to pass. Yuuri would die of mortification before he and Victor had their second date.

He reddened and hid his face behind the clothes. “Never show it to me.”

“I might have also commissioned a song and choreographed a medal-winning skating routine about how sexy it was.”

Okay, Victor had to be messing with him now. No version of Yuuri could ever be that attractive.

He huffed. “I really need to take that shower.”

He stepped toward the bathroom, but Victor tapped him on the shoulder. Victor grinned and held up the marker from this morning.

Yuuri raised an eyebrow. “What's this for?”

“Hold out your arms.”

Yuuri frowned, but set the clothes down again and extended his arms. Whatever it was, he could wipe it off. Victor started writing on Yuuri's skin. As he finished each word, Yuuri's eyes widened.

On his left arm, Victor wrote, _Find me_.

“You don't,” Yuuri said, throat tight, “you don't have to do that.”

“No,” Victor said. He moved on to the right arm. “But I want to.”

When he finished, Yuuri had to wipe away the wetness from his eyes. Victor capped the marker with a soft pop.

Yuuri's right arm now read, _I love you._

“I hate this,” Victor said. “I hate the thought of you having to leave this and be alone all those years, and me not being there for you. I hate how lonely _I_ was before I met you. I hate that my stupid past self didn't know how incredible you are, and there's nothing I can do to go back in time and knock some sense into him.”

If this were a movie, the chords would swell and they'd gaze into each other's eyes. But here the only soundtrack was the hum of the air-conditioner, and Yuuri's stupid nose was starting to run. Great. He was ugly-crying, after Victor had called him sexy.

“Victor,” he hiccuped.

“Promise me you won't give up.” Victor pulled back, and smiled sadly at him. “Keep going, even when it's hard. And when you meet my past self, please, be patient with him.”

He raised his hands to Yuuri's, and slipped the ring onto Yuuri's finger. Then, before Yuuri's stunned eyes, he pressed a kiss to Yuuri's knuckles.

“Keep chasing me. Demand me. Seduce me. Steal me away from the rest of the world, and every day I will thank you for it.”

Yuuri stared at the gold band on his finger. His heartbeat pounded in his chest, and his muscles felt like lead. How was he supposed to walk away after hearing _that_?

Victor cleared his throat and glanced away. “Sorry, I'm being too forward again. I shouldn't have—”

Yuuri threw his arms around him. Under his hands, the muscles tensed in Victor's back. Yuuri brushed his thumb over Victor's shoulder blade, soft and slow like when he was comforting Vicchan, and rested his chin on Victor's shoulder.

“In case I don't get to see you again,” Yuuri mumbled, “let me have this, okay?”

Beside him, he heard Victor gulp, and then Victor drew up his arms to embrace Yuuri back. Where Yuuri's hold was tight, Victor's was soft, like Yuuri was something fragile and precious. Like a child, but not like a lover.  
  
Yuuri mentally stomped the flare of annoyance back down to the bottom of his stomach. This was already more than he could ask for. So for now, he closed his eyes, soaking in the feel of Victor's chest rising and falling, the brush of Victor's cheek against his, and the faint scent of raspberry jam.

Yuuri's lip twitched. _Dork._

“Victor, if we meet again—”

“When.”

Victor's voice brooked no argument. Not that Yuuri wanted to argue.

“ _When_ we meet again,” he said, pulling back so he could meet Victor's eyes, “I'm going to wear the ugliest tie I can find, just to see the look on your face.”

Victor blinked. Then he laughed. “When you're not watching, I'll burn it.”

Yuuri smiled back. “You better.”

They held each other for a few seconds more, until Yuuri couldn't justify waiting any longer, and stepped away.

“If things go as usual,” he said, picking up the clothes, “future-Yuuri will be back in a few minutes, and things will be back to normal for you.”

“And if things don't go as usual?”

“Then I, younger-Yuuri, will step out of the shower again, and we'll have to deal with that.”

“Then we'll deal with it,” Victor said. “Whatever happens, I have faith in you.”

Yuuri flushed at that, and gave Victor one last smile. He took a deep breath, let it out, and closed the door to the bathroom behind him.

He cast a final look around. Soft evening light streamed through airy windows, reflecting highlights and shadows across the warm wood grain. On the walls, pictures of Hasetsu Beach. Victor's silly hair products—ah, that's where the avocado had gone—and clippings of Makkachin's fur in the trash, from when he must have trimmed her paws.

“Please, God,” Yuuri whispered. “Or whatever stupid thing put me in this year. Take me back.”

He disrobed, turned on the water, and stepped into the shower.


	13. Resolve

At 8:19 p.m., Yuuri turned off the water, drew back the shower curtain, and stepped out of the shower.

This bathroom was...small.

He shook his head. Had Victor spoiled him already? Sure, he could touch both walls with his hands by standing in the middle, but it was clean and good for its price.

He shivered in Sapporo's December chill, and grabbed a towel from a rusted bar to dry himself. He checked himself in the mirror. The Sun had long set, and the fluorescent bulb provided meager light, but he was visibly eighteen again. His pajamas and glasses lay in a pile on the laminate counter.

He tried not to think about the bare, beige walls. He averted his eyes from the generic mini-bottles of shower products, and ignored the freezing tiles beneath his feet. This was his reality. This was where he was supposed to be. Not in St. Petersburg, which was already beginning to feel like a mere dream.

Was it a dream?

Yuuri blinked, took a deep breath, and looked down at his arms. The ring glinted on his finger, and the words still trailed up and down his skin.

His vision started to blur. He leaned on the wall to steady himself, and lifted the shower curtain to wipe his eyes.

As he pulled his pajamas on, Yuuri shook his head. He should have been happy. He had proof now that he wasn't crazy. Victor even said he loved him.

He stood in front of the sink, picked up his toothpaste tube, and struggled to open it because his hands were shaking. It took three tries to get the paste onto the toothbrush.

 _I should be happy_ , he repeated, as he dropped the toothbrush in the sink and had to wipe his eyes again halfway through brushing.

Yuuri finished brushing, and rinsed the bristles. He picked up his glasses without putting them on. He shuffled into bed and turned the lights off. For a few minutes he tossed and turned. He heard no faint breathing beside him, nor felt a poodle curl up in the crook of his knees.

Yuuri twisted the ring around his finger. It felt warm against his skin.

In the darkness, he couldn't see the words Victor had written. He leaned over and picked up the phone from its charger on the floor. He turned it on and pulled up his pajama sleeves. The words were still there. _Find me,_ and _I love you._

Yuuri sighed, and let his head fall onto his pillow. He stared at the grey-painted ceiling.

How was he supposed to find Victor? In this year, Victor had no idea who he was, and would assume Yuuri was a stalker if Yuuri tried to approach him out of the blue. There was social media, but frankly, that was almost as nerve-wracking as phone calls. And why would Victor want to bother with Yuuri, even if Yuuri did manage to contact him? Future-Yuuri might be cool, but present-Yuuri could barely land a quad toe loop.

He closed his eyes and placed his hand over his heart. He relaxed his muscles, and pressed against the ring with his thumb.

They were figure skaters. Victor a former World Champion, Yuuri just an upstart. But they would both compete in the senior division next year, even if at completely different levels. He barely had the quad toe, except...

Except that this morning, with no practice beforehand, Yuuri had spun all four rotations of a quad flip. A jump that only Victor Nikiforov had ever landed before. Yuuri had ruined it at the last half-second by freaking out, but he'd felt in his bones that he could do it, that he _had_ done it. And he had won a World Championship in that timeline, too.

If even one version of Yuuri could achieve those things, then that must mean they were possible here _._

His breathing steadied, and he tightened his right hand into a fist. For years, he had hoped to one day skate on the same ice as Victor, to prove himself worthy in his own right. And in one future, he had proven it. Because he had kept chasing a pipe dream.

But _how_ to chase it? He could take Celestino's offer and go to Detroit. Or, he could stay in Japan and get his degree. Japan meant job prospects and being able to visit his family. Detroit meant he might, with luck, make a name for himself. But the odds were slim, and his career after his skating years could suffer.

Japan, Detroit. Either way, he would be giving up something huge, and which he might not get another chance to do.

_There has to be another way._

The vision of Yurio pounding his controller onto the couch burst into Yuuri's mind.

_If you can have it both ways, then I'm sure I can._

Yuuri had no doubt of that. Yurio was more thoughtful and hard-working than Yuuri had guessed at first, and those strengths would take him far.

Wait a second.

_You can have it both ways._

If Yurio had said that, then that meant future-Yuuri, in his past...or past-Yuuri's future...whatever. Those words meant that some version of Yuuri had figured out how to pursue _both_ the things he wanted. Education _and_ skating. And on top of those things, he'd seduced Victor Nikiforov by pole-dancing.

(Yuuri still had his doubts about the last part.)

But Yuuri had only applied to Japanese colleges. He might try skating competitively with a coach in Japan, but none of the ones who would take him were as good as Celestino. Celestino's offer was once in a lifetime. But there was no way Yuuri could afford an American college, so how could he take both paths?

His eyes lit up with an idea, and he sucked in a breath. _Thank you, Yurio._

He jumped out of bed, turned on his laptop and pulled up the websites for each university that had accepted him. He searched their websites up and down. It took a good two hours, and trawling through several student forums, but eventually he found what he needed.

Distance learning courses.

One particular university—not the best, but still quite respectable—had most of its core courses available online. As long as Yuuri gave his academic advisor and professors sufficient notice, they would be able to work around most of his time being spent out of the country. The courses that weren't available online, he would have to study for independently. He could either test out, or submit research papers for them, instead. But it was possible.

He logged in to the digital application form, and clicked _Confirm Enrollment_ , bags under his eyes and heart drumming in his chest.

His next task was to contact Celestino. Then, once he had the next year roughly planned out with his new coach, he'd contact the university and work out his schedule with them. He would have to fly back and forth several times throughout the year to take his exams. The more advance notice everyone had, the more likely this would work. He'd have to call people as soon as possible. Oh god, he'd have to talk on the phone.

Not yet, though. It wasn't even 6 a.m. in Detroit. He had a reprieve, at least until dawn.

He plugged his laptop in, collapsed back on his bed, and fell asleep in seconds.

The next morning, Yuuri packed his bags. He weaved his way past the press, who were crowding for pictures of the National medalists. He arrived early to the airport for his flight back to Hasetsu. While waiting for his plane, he took a deep breath, and dialed Celestino's number.

The other man picked up after only a few rings. “Hello, Celestino Cialdini, who is this?”

“Yuuri Katsuki,” Yuuri said, fighting to keep his voice steady. “I was wondering if—”

“Yuuri!” Celestino's voice brightened. “I'm glad to hear from you! Have you given my offer any more thought?”

“Yes. That's what I'm calling about. See, I want to accept, but I also want to go to university.”

“Right, right. Many skaters do that. It's a lot of work, but I have faith in you.”

He said it so casually, Yuuri almost lost his balance.

“Thanks. I've only applied to Japanese universities, but I looked up distance learning options, and I think I can arrange something.”

“That's great! If you can give me the days you'll need to travel back, I would be happy to work around them.”

Yuuri slumped, tension draining from his shoulders.

“Okay. Thank you, I'll do that.”

“I have another student who will be coming to Detroit in a few months,” Celestino said, “He's a few years younger than you. Since both of you are coming from overseas, I thought you might like to get in touch now, so you'll already know someone when you arrive here.”

Yuuri raised his eyebrows. That...was actually a good idea. Even though he'd have to talk on the phone with another person he didn't know. If he dealt with the nerves now, he might have a friend later.

“Okay, that sounds good. You can send him my number.”

“Great! Expect to hear from him soon.”

The moment the call ended, Yuuri's hand started shaking, and he had to sit down to avoid toppling over. Had he really done that? He was going to Detroit. The other side of the globe. Where he would pursue a degree, a quad flip, and the toughest figure skating competition in the world.

And Victor.

Yuuri leaned back, watched the planes take off from the runways, and smiled.

* * *

Hasetsu looked much the same as it always had when Yuuri returned, but Yuuri was not the same man he had always been.

How strange, that a single freak shower incident could affect him this much. The private shower his family used looked as innocent as ever, and for the first time since he was a child, Yuuri looked at it with something other than loathing. After all, if the shower in Sapporo had the same issue, then it probably wasn't the showers themselves that were to blame.

He managed to avoid another time jump by using the public onsen showers. His best guess now was that the presence of other people prevented the jumps. His family gave him curious glances for it. Thankfully, they did not press the issue. They had grown accustomed to Yuuri's oddness long ago.

The Russian national figure skating competition took place a few days after Yuuri returned. He sat in the lounge with his best friend, Yuuko, and his dance teacher, Minako. Minako cracked open her third bottle of sake and cooed at the screen.

“Yuuri! Your boyfriend is back!”

Before, Yuuri would have stammered and hidden his face. Now, he curled his fingers around the golden band in his pocket, and he refused to take his eyes off the screen.

Victor Nikiforov waved to the crowd. He was twenty-two again, wide-eyed and vibrant, and his coach had to press him forward to prevent him from getting distracted. Several reporters shouted questions about his expectations of winning. He had been forced to sit out last season due to injury, and at twenty-two most figure skaters were thinking about retirement. How, the press asked, could he hope to win?

Yuuri frowned at them, and his fingers tightened on the ring. In the future he'd seen, Victor had shattered their skepticism by winning Worlds five times in a row. That gave Yuuri five years to meet him, assuming neither of them got seriously hurt before then. Assuming that Victor didn't fall in love with someone else, in the crowds of adoring fans. Assuming Yuuri actually made it to Victor's level, and didn't screw up horribly, and Victor liked him back and, and, and...

And Victor had already been injured once. All it took was one little fall, one step out of rhythm, and Yuuri's dream would be gone. Yuuri's Victor would be gone.

He wrapped his arms around himself and stared at the floor, forcing himself to breathe slowly so the others wouldn't get concerned. It was ridiculous. Victor could make it. If anyone could, he could. No, more likely Yuuri would be the one to fail. In between his panic attacks and his college course load, and moving to a foreign country, and his stupid brain sabotaging himself, he could let down Victor in a million different ways.

His phone rang with a call from an unknown number. He let it go to voicemail.

Maybe he should just stay in Japan. Victor didn't look lonely. He was waving at the audience and couldn't stand still before they opened the ice for warm-ups. There would be a thousand other people who wanted him, people more attractive than Yuuri. Maybe it would be easier, if Yuuri let nature take its course, and got over his feelings now instead of fighting for years only to fail.

He watched the warm-ups and the first few skaters with his stomach twisted in knots. When the competition cut to commercials, he played his voicemail.

“Hello!” said the caller. “I'm Phichit Chulanont! I'll be joining Coach Celestino next season! He told me you would be new to Detroit too?”

Yuuri nearly dropped his phone. Of all the weird coincidences. But if Phichit was anything like his future self would be, Yuuri was not complaining. He swallowed his nerves and called Phichit back.

“Hey, Phichit, it's Yuuri. Nice to hear from you.”

“Yay! Good to hear you, too! You're from Japan, right? What's it like? Have you ever been to the US? Sorry, I hope I'm not bothering you!”

Some of the tightness in Yuuri's chest loosened. It was hard to believe the man whose default volume was “extra” and who smuggled his hamsters into Russia could be this awkward. But then, this wasn't the same Phichit, was it? He looked around twenty-two, twenty-three in Yuuri's memory. The Phichit who contacted Yuuri now would be fifteen or sixteen.

“You're fine. I haven't been to the US before.” He glanced back to the screen. “To be honest, I'm kind of nervous.”

The line crackled as Phichit let out a big sigh.

“Oh, thank god. I thought it was just me. I've never even been outside of Bangkok.”

The competition came back on, revealing the next skater, and Yuuri's eyes softened.

“Everyone keeps saying I'll do great,” Phichit said, “But like? What if I have to sign forms? What if no one understands my shitty English?” He gasped. “What if I do something illegal and I get in trouble with the law, and no one can help me because I can't speak English?”

Yuuri's brows drew inward, smile twitching. “You are talking to me in English right now.”

“Yeah,” Phichit said. “I know I'm being dumb, but I'm still nervous.”

Yuuri nodded to himself. He understood that feeling far too well. He looked up from his phone, and glanced around the room, recalling how terrified he had been when he'd shown up in Victor's apartment.

He thought of Victor's smile, the way Victor reached out to him and took Yuuri's weirdness in stride. Yuuri pressed his hand against his pocket, face warm.

“You're not dumb,” he said. “Can you tell me three things you like about yourself?”

As they chatted, the Russian competitors flew through their routines, and Yuuri's muscles relaxed. When Victor's turn came, he skated onto the ice to cheers of people welcoming him back. The commentators nitpicked every detail of his medal history, his injury, and his strengths and weaknesses as a skater, before his routine even started.

Usually, watching Victor skate made the rest of Yuuri's world disappear for a while. He could sit in front of the television for hours, a dopey smile on his face, shoulders lifting in time to Victor's jumps. But he couldn't enjoy it this time, in between getting to know Phichit, and the commentators narrating Victor's routine.

Victor landed his quad flip perfectly, the crowd roared, and the commentators hemmed and hawed over his chances of making the podium. When the routine ended, they swapped jokes about how he was the next “pop pretty boy” with an “obsessed fan club.”

Yuuri scowled. Victor did not just have a fan club. He paused in his daily routine to talk to his fans and make them feel appreciated. He _cultivated_ them. And in the future, their loyalty enabled him to build a business empire, in a sport that sucked every other skater's bank account dry.

It wasn't that Victor was not a pretty boy. But he was more than what most people saw. And the most annoying part was that, until Yuuri's last jump had dumped him in Victor's lap, _he_ had been one of those people, too.

But now, Yuuri didn't want the pretty poster-boy. He wanted the Victor who vandalized books, who helped Phichit and Yurio pursue their dreams, who failed at videogames but tried anyway for Yuuri's sake. He wanted the Victor who believed in Yuuri, even about the unbelievable. He wanted to stand by Victor through Victor's storms, as Victor stood by Yuuri through his.

Phichit paused, and Yuuri hadn't heard a word he'd said for the last five minutes. Oops.

“Phichit?”

“Yeah?”

“Do you think it's possible to love someone you've only known for twenty-four hours?”

It sounded absurd. And, maybe, it was. But Yuuri knew what idol-worship and celebrity crushes felt like, and they weren't like this. And whatever his feelings were, they were more than what anyone else in that audience could be feeling for Victor right now.

Phichit chuckled. “Why? Did you get struck by love at first sight?”

Yuuri blushed and ducked his head. He had considered erasing the _I love you_ from his skin when he got dressed this morning, like he'd erased _Victor_ _♥_ _Yuuri,_ _11-5_ _-18_ before. Instead, he'd hidden it under long sleeves.

“ _What's the date?”_

“ _Isn't it always on your arm?”_

Hang on a second. “Always?”

Why would future-Yuuri always write the date on his skin? Wouldn't it be inconvenient to write it down and clean it off every day, especially with permanent marker? It didn't make sense. Although if he did, it would explain why Victor wrote it on him.

May 11th, 2018. Seven years from now. And since Yuuri's jumps occurred sequentially, the next jump would take Yuuri to some point after that date. There could be no past-Yuuri appearing before that point. Why would there be such a long gap from now until then?

The shower. The date. The seven-year gap.

Yuuri sucked in a breath.

“Hang on a minute,” he said. “I'll have to call you back.”

“Something come up?”

“Yeah.” He ended the call. “I need a permanent marker and rubbing alcohol.”


	14. Failure

“Rise and shine, Yuuri!”

Yuuri groaned, and burrowed deeper under his covers. Resistance was futile. He resisted anyway.

“It's two in the afternoon,” Phichit called from behind the door. “If you're naked, too bad!”

He swung the door open with a bang, marched in, and yanked the sheets off Yuuri's fetal curl. Yuuri kept his eyes shut tight and his his face in the pillow. Phichit pulled the pillow off, too.

“You're leaving for Japan at hell-o-clock in the morning tomorrow,” Phichit said, folding the sheets. “I am not having you miss your flight because of sheer inertia.”

Yuuri cracked open one eye. He swallowed. Phichit was right, as usual. But it had become harder and harder for Yuuri to pull himself out of bed every morning.

He didn't have much energy after his life's goal for the past five years had come to nothing.

“Yuuri.”

Phichit squatted down until his face was level with Yuuri's. Yuuri avoided his eyes.

“If you don't start packing, I'll use your posters as hamster-bedding.”

Yuuri shot up at that. “What? No!”

He bounded off the bed and scrambled to rescue his Victor posters from the walls before his god-awful, evil roommate could make good on his threat. Losing any more of Victor, even silly mass-produced posters, was the last thing Yuuri needed right now.

Phichit helped Yuuri fold clothes and sort through the mess of their shared room. Yuuri stuffed his suitcases, eyes down. Even packing away his college diploma did nothing to lift his spirits.

“I know we don't usually talk about this,” Phichit said, once all the clothes were put away, “but you haven't been the same lately.”

Yuuri slumped. “Yeah. I'm sorry, it's hard to find motivation these days.”

“Something happened. At the Grand Prix Final.”

Yuuri cringed. The biggest problem was what didn't happen. But, what _had_ happened was pretty horrible, too.

Phichit zipped up the first suitcase. “I don't want to push you, man, but that was months ago. I feel like you need to spill the details. For your own sake, not mine.”

“I failed. Miserably.”

“Highly doubtful, considering you made the top six in the _world_.”

“Phichit.” Yuuri rolled his eyes. “I flubbed almost every jump in my routine.”

“Everyone has off days. So what?”

“I let down my entire country.”

“No, you didn't.”

“If you're going to argue with me then I'm not going to spill any more.”

Phichit held up his hands. “Okay, okay. My lips are zipped.”

Yuuri gave him a long look. He let out a breath.

“And then I screwed up all over again at Nationals the week after.”

Phichit winced. Even he couldn't deny that.

“But why,” he asked, “is it still bugging you, even now?”

Yuuri's eye twitched. Why? Because Vicchan was still dead, that's why. And now Yuuri's Victor was, well, whatever happened to futures that didn't come true.

Maybe that Victor's husband had come back. Maybe he hadn't, and Victor would be a widower before he was thirty. Maybe that timeline just stopped when Yuuri had left, like a movie reel cut off halfway through, forever stuck on the last frame.

But the worst option, the most probable option, was that his Victor was— _no_. Yuuri shook his head. He couldn't let himself think like that.

Phichit began sorting through the school supplies on Yuuri's desk. He frowned at Yuuri's framed photo of Victor.

“Was Victor a jerk or something? I know he's got this reputation as super nice, but you never know.”

An image flashed in Yuuri's mind of _his_ Victor sliding down a bathroom wall beside him, mangling Japanese to make Yuuri laugh. But the other Victor, _this_ world's Victor...

“Victor was fine, he just...”

He had just looked at Yuuri with the same blank smile he used for all of his fans.

“He didn't recognize me, that's all.”

Phichit spun around. “What? But there were only six competitors there! How could he not know you?” He raised a fist. “If he was trying to brush you off, I'll—”

“No, no!” Yuuri waved his hands. “I mean, it's not like I tried to talk to him, either.”

Phichit's hand dropped to his side.

“Yuuri. My bro. Are you telling me you shared the ice with Prince Charming and didn't even _talk_ to him? Were you the Little Mermaid when you should have been Cinderella?”

Yuuri rubbed the back of his neck. “I was nervous, okay?”

“There is a banquet right after the competition with free-flowing alcohol. You are twenty-three. What did you _do_?”

“Numbed myself to the pain, ran away as soon as Celestino's back was turned, and woke with a hangover the size of Michigan.”

Phichit groaned. “Yuuri!”

“I _know_.”

That was the worst part: nothing had stood in Yuuri's way. He had several chances to approach Victor, to ask him out, to make _them_ happen. He had even brought his ugliest tie.

Victor had told him everything he needed to do. But Yuuri, too wrapped up in panic and Vicchan's death and his own stupid self-loathing, had failed him.

“Look, I hate to be this way,” Phichit said, throwing hamburger wrappers into the trash, “But you gotta chase your man with everything you got. You never know when you'll get another chance.”

Yuuri stared at his feet. “I think that _was_ my only chance.”

Because Yuuri had to retire from competition now. Two miserable embarrassments in a row at high-profile competitions meant no prize money. It also meant that many of his sponsors weren't renewing their contracts for next season. At this point, Yuuri couldn't even afford Celestino's coaching fees.

Meaning: Yuuri would not get another chance to chase Victor. And now _his_ Victor was probably dead.

“Hey, hey,” Phichit said. “Don't you dare give up. You're...huh.”

Yuuri blinked out of his daze at the odd shift in Phichit's voice.

“Yuuri? What are you doing with a ring?”

Yuuri's head shot up. In his hands, Phichit held up the wedding band.

“Nothing! It's a—give that to me, please.”

Phichit raised an eyebrow, but didn't comment as he handed it over. Yuuri rolled the ring in his palm. Its golden shine had dulled over the years, and Yuuri had stopped carrying it with him after it got scratched. He blinked away wetness from his eyes.

He grabbed his suitcase and shoved the ring to the bottom of it. So there. It couldn't remind him of his failure now.

* * *

Yuuri said goodbye to Phichit and Celestino at the airport, with much hugging (from Phichit) and a warm, bone-crushing handshake (from Celestino). The trip home felt like a haze. He had spent the last five years of his life in Detroit, and now he was returning with nothing to show for it. No gold medals. No honor for his home country. Not even a phone number from Victor.

Hasetsu was blooming with the cherry blossoms of early April when he returned. Minako greeted him at the train station, and her melodious voice drew the eyes of every other traveler in the vicinity. Yuuri shrank from their attention. He tried not to look at the posters they had pinned of him on the train station walls. He had let them all down.

His melancholy persisted for days. Each morning crawled by, aimless, yet seemed to have vanished in a moment the next day. When his friends and family offered to listen, he had nothing to say.

What could he have said? How could he grieve for a future that never existed? The only person who ever believed him was gone, and the rest of the world didn't even know it.

Eventually, Minako dragged him out of his room to sit with his family in front of the TV, waiting for the World Championships to start. The scene was similar to that realization years ago when Phichit had called during Russian Nationals. He had swelled with hope back then. Now, Yuuri was lucky if he could muster the strength to even look at the television.

His heart hurt when he watched Victor now. Five years ago, Yuuri had merely missed him. But the passage of time had healed that wound, and replaced it with a new one. Yuuri had to watch as Victor's smile turned brittle over the years, and his enthusiasm for figure skating drained away. No one else had noticed. Only Yuuri's luck in witnessing Victor's real smile made him realize that this one was fake.

It was the same face _his_ Victor had worn, when he didn't want Yuuri to know he'd been crying.

Yuuri couldn't stand to see it. He couldn't just sit there and watch Victor fade a little further. He could always catch Victor's performance later. For tonight, he returned to Ice Castle Hasetsu, with the need to move, to do _something_ useful burning in his muscles.

The least he could do was try.

 _Stammi Vicino_ was an eleven-jump monster of a routine. It kicked off with a quad Lutz, the most difficult jump humans could land, and it ended with a quad-triple combo that wrecked anyone with less than superhuman endurance. Victor performed it flawlessly. Consistent, perfectly-landed jumps were his forte. For anyone else, it was impossible.

But Yuuri had plenty of experience with impossible things.

The rink was cold and silent, but behind his closed eyes Yuuri saw Victor's opening stance. In his ears, he heard the aria, sweet and resonant. He took the first few steps, and swept into the routine as Victor had done.

He had failed. Season after season, Yuuri came closer to Victor's level, but never quite reached him. Time was running out. How much longer would Victor skate, before the limits of his body forced him to quit? Before his false smile became too hard to hold up for the camera?

Yuuri simplified Victor's quadruple Lutz and quadruple flip into triple jumps.

Money, too, was running short. As supportive as his family was, Yuuri couldn't depend on them any longer. He still hadn't recovered the deficit from losing several sponsors. He couldn't afford a high-caliber coach right now. If he wanted to compete, he would have to find some other way.

He swept out of the camel spin and into the step sequence. While jumps were his weakness, step sequences were easy. He had no trouble matching Victor step for step here.

At twenty-three, Yuuri was old for a figure skater, and Victor was twenty-seven. They were fast approaching the point when Victor must have retired in the future Yuuri had seen. At that time, Yuuri's chance of seeing him again would crash.

Yuuri leapt into the flying sit-spin, then into the quadruple Salchow. He touched down on the landing. He winced. A judge would dock points for that.

There was another side to the problem: Victor's own motivation. Or lack thereof. The Russian Skating Federation expected him to keep going for as long as his body would endure it. The fans wanted Victor to continue for as long as he could entertain them. The sponsors wanted Victor to keep being marketable, and that meant to keep winning.

 _“A million people told me not to quit,”_ Victor had said. “ _Only one man told me to do what made me happy.”_

Yuuri scowled and slammed down on the combination jump.

If Yuuri wasn't there, how much farther would Victor push himself? How much longer did he have before he crashed? Before twenty years of bruises and fractures and simple aging caught up to him?

Triple Lutz. Triple flip. Yuuri landed them, clean and sharp.

And, when it ended, when Victor's fame faded and the spotlight moved on to the next bright young thing, and he was no longer the Hero of Russia, who would be there to help him up again?

Yuuri nailed the last jumps, a quadruple-toe, triple-toe combination. The music swelled in his head, and the ice swooped below his feet as he smoothly turned into the ending spin.

He had to find a way to skate on the same ice as Victor again, even if this wasn't _his_ Victor. Whether in a competition, ice show, or by random chance at some tiny rink ten years from now, Yuuri would find him. He would keep going. Both for himself, and for Victor.

Then the music ended, and Yuuri was alone on the silent ice again, arms outstretched to the heavens. He prayed that Victor would hang on just a little longer. Just long enough for Yuuri to reach him.

He returned home that night, and peacefully fell asleep.

Morning woke him with a phone call from Nishigori, who co-owned the rink with Yuuko.

“Sorry,” he said, “My girls recorded your routine and uploaded it to the internet. It's gone viral.”

Yuuri gaped. “What?!”

He wrapped his blanket tighter around himself, and huddled in his bed.

“Look on the bright side,” Nishigori said. “People know who you are now! It might even be seen by Victor himself!”

Yuuri stiffened, and the blood froze in his veins.

Yuuri never asked Victor for permission to perform _Stammi Vicino_ , much less upload a video of it. Now it looked like Yuuri was pretending he could skate it _better_ than Victor. And the video was released on the same night Victor won his fifth consecutive World Championship, which made it all the _worse_. Yuuri had practically thrown a bomb into the figure skating community.

He hadn't just wiped a version of Victor out of existence. Yuuri had destroyed whatever slim chance he had that he and Victor could ever be friendly acquaintances. Victor probably wouldn't lash out at him for this. He was too nice for that. But he'd avert his eyes if they were ever in the same room, and leave Yuuri to wallow in his own failure.

Yuuri hung up. When his phone started buzzing again, he turned it off entirely. Maybe he could hide in his room forever, and pretend the rest of the world didn't exist.

For the next few days, he tried that. But on the third day, Yuuri woke to the sound of his mother pounding on his door.

“Yuuri, don't hole up in your room! Help shovel snow!”

He peeked out from under warm covers. He frowned; why was his bedroom cold? Winter was long gone, and last night he'd turned the air conditioning up.

Then his mother's words hit him.

He opened his curtains, and stared at the sight of cherry blossoms covered in thick drifts of snow. His neighborhood could have passed for Detroit in December, but his calendar still said it was April. In all his years, Yuuri had never seen more than a rare dusting of frost in Hasetsu's mornings, and that always vanished by noon.

Shaking his head, he got out his winter wear. He grabbed a shovel and went to the front door to clear the path for guests.

He stopped cold at the sight of a brown poodle sitting in the entrance.

“Vicchan?”

The dog knocked him over with a happy bark. Yuuri laughed and shoved the dog's licks away from his face. Not Vicchan. This poodle was larger, and had grey flecks around her muzzle. In fact, she looked a lot like Makkachin.

Yuuri's eyes went huge. Wait, this _was_ Makkachin. But how?

“Yuuri!”

His father strolled over with a grin. “Isn't she just like Vicchan? She came with a really good-looking foreign guest!”

Yuuri's head spun around. He stared at his father in shock. Toshiya Katsuki knew perfectly well who Makkachin's owner was! He had only listened to Yuuri ramble about that owner, oh, about five hundred times?

Yuuri's father quirked one side of his mouth up. “He's in the hot spring right now.”

Yuuri lurched to his feet, wobbled on legs made of jelly and nerves, and tore through the lobby to the guest area. He ran past the showers and into the men's bath house. Only a few older men were present. They sent Yuuri puzzled looks.

Yuuri panted, glanced back and forth, and sucked in a breath. Of course. There was one other place to search: outside.

He opened the door to the outdoor pools with a shaking hand, and his glasses fogged up as steam mixed with cold outdoor air. He wiped his lenses on his sleeve. There, before him, lay a single guest in the outdoor spring.

Yuuri would have recognized that silver hair anywhere.

Victor Nikiforov lifted his head, smiled, and rose from the water, naked and unashamed. His pale skin was flushed pink from the heat, and he stood out like a Greek statue amid the snow banks and cherry blossoms.

“Yuuri!” he said. “Starting today, I'm your coach!”

What? _What??_

Yuuri's jaw would have dropped again, if his entire body weren't slack already.

Victor extended a hand. “I'll make you win the Grand Prix Final.”

He finished with a flirtatious wink. It looked just future-Victor's “seductive” face. Which Yuuri had seen when they met for the first time...the _other_ first time...and he had walked in on a gleefully naked Victor then, too.

“ _You mean_ _it happened_ _**twice**_ _?!”_

In his mind, Yuuri saw future-Victor by the river, gaping like a fish. He felt himself go pale, disbelief warring with a tiny spark of hope, and his body stumbled forward without any input from him. With a trembling hand, he reached up, waiting for his fingers to pass through and dissolve the illusion.

“Ow!”

Instead, he hit Victor Nikiforov in the face.

“Yuuri! What was that for?”

Victor Nikiforov, who was now rubbing his forehead and looking bewildered. In other words, he was doing an excellent impression of his future self.

Yuuri couldn't help it. He started giggling.

“Sorry. It's just—he's _you_.”

Victor blinked, and his arm dropped to his side. “But I'm me?”

Yuuri only shook his head, smiling uncontrollably, and hugged him.

 


	15. Ring

On May 10th, 2018, at 7:58 p.m., Yuuri Katsuki-Nikiforov set his ring and glasses on the counter, and stepped into his shower.

For the first time in seven years, he'd wiped the numbers off his wrist, heart pounding in his head. He prayed to every god he knew that his younger self wouldn't screw this up. He prayed that _he_ hadn't screwed this up. Even a slight change of circumstances could make Victor act differently, and send the day reeling in an unknown direction.

At 8:22 p.m., he turned off the water with shaking hands, pulled open the curtain, and squinted at the counter.

His ring was missing. In its place was a change of clothing that he didn't recall picking out.

His knees buckled beneath him, and he leaned his arms on the edge of the tub, letting out a full-body breath of relief.

He pulled the cap off his marker with a satisfying pop, and jotted the date down on his wrist. He smiled as he dried himself off, donned his clothes, and opened the door to the bedroom.

Victor was fully dressed, and in a different set of clothes than Yuuri had last seen. His arms were wrapped around Makkachin, and he was sitting cross-legged, back stiff and jaw tight. Their eyes met. Victor searched Yuuri's face for a long moment. Then his gaze dropped down to Yuuri's wrist.

_Yuuri ♥ Victor, 11-5-18._

Victor leapt from the bed and tackled him in a hug.

“ _Yuuri!”_

Yuuri wrapped his arms around his husband, and felt Victor holding him tight in return. Not that Yuuri could blame him. It was a distant memory to him now, but for Victor, it had been a long, long day.

Yuuri pulled them down until they were lying on the bed, still in each other's arms. Victor buried his face in the crook of Yuuri's neck. Yuuri watched the rise and fall of their breath together, combing his fingers through Victor's hair. Makkachin circled and lay down by Yuuri's feet.

“Are you okay?” Yuuri asked.

Victor hummed against Yuuri's throat. “I've been better.”

That wasn't reassuring. Yuuri sighed, and Victor's hair fluttered beneath Yuuri's chin.

“I was kind of a wreck back then. Sorry for dumping that on you.”

“You weren't a wreck.” Victor clutched Yuuri a little tighter. “But the past twenty-four hours have been a bit challenging.”

Yuuri's hand went still in Victor's hair. “A bit challenging” was Victor-speak for “excruciating,” “mortifying,” or “please kill me now.”

“Tell me about it?”

Victor took a deep breath. His eyelashes fluttered against Yuuri's skin, gaze dropping down to the sheets. He frowned, but there was no heat in it.

“I had a Yuuri,” he said, “but not my Yuuri. He looked like my husband, but he looked at _me_ like a stranger.”

Yuuri shut his eyes in a wince.

“I was worried,” Victor said. “It looked like you didn't want me to touch you, didn't want me to tie your skates or say nice things to you, and you wouldn't even wear your wedding ring anymore. I couldn't figure out why. That was the worst part. And everything I tried only seemed to upset you.”

Each word hit Yuuri in the stomach, and he wanted to curl up and hide. But Victor needed him here. He did not need Yuuri to start pitying himself and making this about _his_ feelings.

He moved his fingers to the hollow of Victor's jaw, rubbing at the spot where Victor bit down too hard when he was stressed.

“I'm sorry. I remembered the day being pretty rough, but I didn't realize it was that bad for you.”

“It's alright.”

“No, it isn't. I wanted to warn you, but...” He shut his eyes and swallowed, grounded by Victor's pulse under his thumb. “I didn't want you to be afraid of disappearing.”

“Why would I disappear? I love you, I'm not going anywhere.”

A frisson shuddered down Yuuri's spine. No matter how many times Victor said those words, they still made Yuuri's world stop for a second, and he always had to drag himself back to the present moment. The present moment in this case being an extremely uncomfortable attempt to explain himself to his husband.

“I mean,” Yuuri cleared his throat, “if the past changed, and this future was replaced by something else, everyone here might have disappeared.”

Victor went rigid, pads of his fingers stiff on Yuuri's back, knees bony against Yuuri's legs. When he spoke, his voice was very quiet.

“Could a shower really do that?”

Yuuri splayed his other hand across Victor's back, scratching lightly where the knots always formed.

“I don't know,” he said. “I don't know what happens to futures that don't come to pass. Maybe you would've been okay, but maybe...” His voice wavered. “There were so many times I could have ruined it, could have lost you, in the last seven years.”

Victor pressed his temple to Yuuri's cheek. “You're not getting rid of me that easily.”

A warm spike of affection rushed up Yuuri's chest. He watched the rise and fall of Victor's torso, and slowed his breaths to match.

“I was terrified. Even after we got married, there was still the risk that younger-me would mess it up. So many little things needed to happen, to push him in the right direction, and I had no idea if I was making the right choices or not.” His knuckles went white, nails digging into his palm. “If you had spent our time together afraid for us, when you could have been happy...I couldn't do that to you.”

Victor shifted in Yuuri's arms, a little of the tension in his back loosening, and draped himself over Yuuri like an extremely clingy blanket, head on Yuuri's shoulder.

“So you made the choice without me,” he said tonelessly, “and carried the fear all by yourself.”

Yuuri petted his hair again. “I'm sorry.”

“I still would have supported younger-you, if I'd known from the start.” His finger traced circles over Yuuri's heart. “I would have believed you.”

“I know. But I think, also...that was one of the things that could have messed the timeline up.”

Victor's hand stilled. “How so?”

Despite himself, Yuuri cracked a smile.

“If you'd known you were going to meet a teenager, would you have flirted with him?”

“What? No!”

Victor sat up on his knees, which was really quite heavy on Yuuri's legs, looking absolutely scandalized.

“Would you have a naked tickle-fight with him? Kiss his cheeks? Ask him to make 'snow angels' with you?”

Victor's mortified blush was a sight Yuuri would treasure forever. “I thought he was you!”

“Would you let a star-struck fanboy see you sneak into your own rink because you can't remember your keys, and mess up a bracket turn, and butcher Japanese?” Yuuri's gaze softened. “If you could avoid it, would you let him see you cry?”

Victor looked away, shoulders slumping, fingers fidgeting in the folds of the bedsheets.

Yuuri reached up a hand to Victor's cheek. He trailed his thumb under one of Victor's eyes, where a slight hint of redness remained.

“Well, what do you think I was chasing you for, all those years?”

Victor's eyes widened. He went still under Yuuri's touch. Yuuri brushed a stray lock of hair from Victor's face.

“Younger-me fell in love with you for the person you are. _I_ love you for who you are. Not for whatever act you think you have to put on around other people.”

Victor lifted a hand up to his cheek, and laced his fingers in Yuuri's.

“I'm working on that,” he said. “Being myself.”

“I know, love. Again, I'm sorry for putting you through this.”

Victor gave Yuuri's hand a reassuring squeeze. He closed his eyes, and let Yuuri's hand drift down to the nape of his neck. Yuuri rubbed at the tightness in Victor's muscles.

“Yuuri?”

“Yeah?”

“I don't think I want to read any more time travel stories.”

Yuuri chuckled at that, then looked away. “I won't blame you if you're mad at me.”

Victor eased himself down again, mercifully taking most of the weight off Yuuri's leg. He propped himself up on one elbow beside Yuuri, and picked at the bedsheets.

“I'm not mad, just rattled. Since he looked like you, I kept forgetting and having to remind myself, 'No, Victor, he's eighteen, don't be creepy.' By the way, was I creepy?”

“No. It was a weird situation, but I felt safe with you.”

Victor's shoulders loosened, and he lay back down, arms around Yuuri again. Yuuri held him close.

“Honestly, I'm amazed you didn't freak out.”

Victor's lip twitched. “We couldn't _both_ freak out.”

They lay like that for a while, watching the sky turn gold and Makkachin's paws quiver as she dreamed. As Victor relaxed, so did Yuuri, and Yuuri's thoughts drifted to his plan for tomorrow. His mouth quirked up at that prospect.

Victor turned so he was lying on his stomach and looking straight at Yuuri.

“If another time jump happens, _please_ warn me next time.”

Yuuri's smile only grew. Victor frowned at him in adorable confusion, and Yuuri had to stop himself from pulling him closer just yet.

“I won't have to.” He brushed the fringe from Victor's eyes. “That was the last one. I figured out how to stop them soon after.”

Victor pulled up on his elbows. “You fixed the shower?”

“Well, about that. It wasn't the shower after all. It was me.”

“What do you mean?”

Yuuri's fingers snaked around to the weak point behind Victor's ear. “You know how I always write the current date on my arm in permanent marker?”

Victor leaned in to the touch. “Right.”

“That keeps me anchored on that date.”

“That's all it takes?”

“Yep. Bathing with other people present works, too.”

He scritched at Victor's hairline with the pads of his fingers, and Victor's eyes fluttered closed. It was awfully satisfying how long it took him to connect the final dot.

“So when younger-you took a shower this morning, and it didn't work...”

“It was because you wrote _Victor_ _♥_ _Yuuri_ _, 11-5-18_ on my arm, and I was too enamored with you to take it off at first.”

Victor's eyes flew open, and his whole face sparked to life.

“Yuuri! That's so sweet!”

Yuuri grinned up at him. Victor's eyes were always most beautiful when he was smiling. Yuuri placed his other hand on the back of Victor's neck, pulled him down, and met Victor's lips with his. For the first time in weeks, the quivering _What if I fail_ part of his brain shut off completely, and it was only him and Victor, warm and solid and real.

When they parted, Victor said, “I missed this.”

Yuuri raised his eyebrows. “After twenty-four hours?”

“Those were the longest twenty-four hours of my life!”

“Perhaps I can make it up to you tonight.”

“Oh, I think you can.”

Yuuri arched up to steal another kiss, his hand sliding up under Victor’s shirt.

No more time jumps. No more holes in his memories. No more sleep lost over whether the man he loved would be erased from existence, if Yuuri didn't complete the time loop just right. He held his husband tight, no longer for fear of losing him, but because if Yuuri couldn't share this he might just explode.

With a sudden jerk Victor pulled away, the smile fading from his features. Yuuri knit his brows, and brushed Victor's cheek with his thumb.

“What's wrong?”

“Your ring,” Victor said, trailing a finger across Yuuri's hand. “I'll have to get you a new one.”

“Why?”

“It's seven years in the past. I told younger you to keep it.”

Yuuri snorted, knuckles winding around Victor's. “And you think I wouldn't hold on to anything that you gave me with all my might?”

Victor's eyes widened. “You mean...”

“It's in one of my suitcases. It's a little older, but should be paradox-free.”

Victor gasped, and his hand crept up to his mouth.

“You were holding on to our wedding ring before I even _met_ you?”

“Now you've made me sound like the creepy one.”

“It's not creepy!” Victor said. “It's amazing! _You're_ amazing. You'll have to put it back on.”

“Okay, just give me a...”

Yuuri tried to sit up. Tried, because Victor was still sprawled over him like a silver-haired octopus. When Yuuri finally rearranged himself into a seated position, Victor wrapped his arms around Yuuri's neck and curled up in Yuuri's lap.

Yuuri poked him. “Are you going to move?”

“Nope.”

“I need to get up.”

“I've been hug-deprived. I'm making up for lost time.”

“What about the ring?”

Victor waved a hand in Makkachin's direction. “Makkachin, go get the ring.”

Makkachin tilted her head at him, but didn't get up from the bed either. Yuuri's lip started twitching.

“I don't think dogs can operate suitcases.”

Victor huffed. “Not this one, no. Clearly we need to get another dog who can.”

“Is that what we're looking for? Must be friendly, house-trained and good at sorting through luggage?”

“Mhmm. Also, you're banned from showering for a week.”

Yuuri sputtered out a laugh. “Victor, that's disgusting.”

“Unless you shower with me, of course.”

“Well, if you insist.” Yuuri rolled his eyes in mock exasperation. “Now can I get up?”

“Sure.”

Victor still did not move. His lips curled into a smirk.

So it was like that, huh? Fine. Yuuri could deal with this. He snuck one hand under Victor's knees, another around Victor's back, and stood up off the bed with Victor still in his arms. Victor squeaked and clutched at Yuuri's shirt.

“My Yuuri is so _strong.”_

“Your Yuuri needs to walk around a bit so his legs don't fall asleep.” He set Victor down on the sheets and leaned in for another kiss. “I'll be right back, okay?”

Victor sighed against his lips, but let himself be pried off. “I could never harm your beautiful thighs.”

Yuuri grinned and blushed at that. He left, and strolled through their home to the living room. Makkachin followed. She curled up on the afghan Yuuri's mother had crocheted for them, and he gave her ears a scratch. He stopped by the bookshelf, opened a binder, and retrieved a flyer he had printed out. Then, he opened the coat closet.

He and Victor still hadn't figured out where to put all their wedding presents, so he had to push aside the giant poodle plush Phichit had sent him, along with the rolled-up _Legend of Zelda_ posters from Yurio. At the back of the closet, he heaved out his suitcase.

The ring was a little dull from time and neglect, but in better shape than he remembered. He slipped it onto his finger, and the last part of his world finally clicked back into place.

Yuuri returned to the bedroom to find Victor lying on the bed, twirling a lily in his hands. Victor sprawled out in his most come-hither pose, and raised the flower up.

Yuuri took it in his free hand. “For me?”

“I would have given it to you earlier, before I was interrupted by a time-traveler.”

Yuuri chuckled. “Time travelers, never where they're supposed to be.”

“I was left alone, bereft.” Victor lay a hand over his heart. “Forlorn.”

“Perhaps this will revive you.”

Victor brightened, only to blink in puzzlement when Yuuri held out the flyer over his head. Victor took it in both hands. His face lit up when he saw the pictures, and his eyes darted quickly over the words.

“Yuuri, is this...”

Yuuri smiled down at the lily, running his fingers over the petals. “I thought this might be a hard day for you, so I looked up some dog rescues. This poodle group will be at the pet store tomorrow. They're having a meet and greet—”

Victor wrapped his arms around him and dragged him down to the bed.

“I love you,” he murmured against Yuuri's neck. “We'll bring Makkachin, find a dog she likes.”

“Alright,” Yuuri said. “It's a date.”

They more than made up for the hug-deficit that night. The stars were high in the sky, and the clothes all over the floor, by the time Yuuri and Victor fell asleep in each other's arms.

Tomorrow was going to be a good day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And it's done! Thank you so much for reading.
> 
> If you want to read a deeper treatment of Victor's issues, I've recently finished writing _[The Unraveling of Victor Nikiforov,](http://www.archiveofourown.org/works/15453861)_ and will update it every Sunday. In this story, Victor has just wrapped up Hot Springs on Ice and is planning to ask Yuuri out. But when his carelessness causes Yuuri's beloved handmade sweater to be destroyed, Victor must hide the evidence before it wrecks their uncertain relationship. A sweater should be easy to fix, right? He'll hire someone. But secrets have a tendency to get out of hand, and this one will cost him more than just his money...


End file.
